There were very few things that could put Marco Fisichella on edge. He was a killer. He’d worked for the most rich, influential and dangerous people in Walser for almost a decade. What separated the wheat from the chaff was the ability to kill, and then to get away with it. Some of them tried to screw him over or stiff him on the payment, but none of them succeeded.
What he hated the most was not making money.
Marco didn’t like sitting still. He didn’t like having to mope around his safehouse in Bromberg Common like an unemployed busker. Time was money, and every second wasted was cash left on the table. He and his gang were in the middle of a genuine drought. Not only was there no appetite for getting banged up in jail like Cathdra Roderro – but Rentree’s death during their last big job made hiring them an unattractive prospect.
It was just as Marco feared. They were being blamed for what Cordia did.
“Marco, I’ve got our cut from the dock.”
Benny Burton walked into the living room and placed a large bag filled with paper notes onto the table. Marco unbuttoned it and started to count up the stacks – but he could tell from the first second that it was lighter than usual, and the amounts were getting trimmer by the week.
“They’re skipping out on us again.”
Benny pointed to himself, “I told ‘em I was working for Marco Fisichella – and they just laughed in my face. Nerve of ‘em! I had to put them back in their place and smash the gaff up.”
Marco was not happy, “Ever since Erwin’s boys got busted for that Roderro business, they’ve started getting way too big for their britches. There’s a gap they want to fill.”
“And that shit with Rentree didn’t help either.”
“Sure didn’t. Everyone thinks that they can step on our toes. It’s so tiresome.”
Marco was the man who handled the business, but his reputation alone was enough to bring a lot of people to their door. That reputation had been seriously damaged by Cordia’s decision to shoot and kill Lady Rentree. Not only did the latter half of their contract not get paid out – but there was also a belief amongst their usual clientele that they were partly responsible for it.
It was for those two reasons that Marco elected to pull his men from the estate and get out of there. There was no use in fighting a battle, potentially resulting in the death of his brothers, for nothing in return. Fighting for a cause was only something that rich assholes cared about. It was a luxury.
The path from a disorganized street gang to a widely renowned assassin organization was a rocky one. Marco would be damned if he was going to let one bad job destroy all of that progress and throw them into fresh poverty.
The Church Walk Family were the biggest problem. Years of police crackdowns in and around Church Street, and the larger district, had failed to dent their influence. They offered security and collective identity to people who desperately needed both.
“What about the Walk?”
“They seem to be a right fuss about something or other, but it’s nowt to do with us.”
“I’d like a more specific answer than that.”
“Even my usual ears can’t parse it. I went and asked ‘em all in person too. One of the big lads thinks that the police are about to come down hard, harder than they’ve tried before, but this time it’s enough to make them worry.”
Marco frowned, “Enough to make the Walk worry? I thought they were too hard-headed for that.”
“It could be something big or nothing at all.”
Marco’s safehouse was located close to Church Walk, which lent its name to the gang that occupied it. Church Walk used to be one of the most affluent areas of the city, but that changed quickly when it started to industrialize. A huge swathe of working-class people flocked to the city and Church Walk became left behind as the old residents moved out.
It was filled with numerous historic buildings and churches, it was also filled with every brand of scumbag, scam artist and crook you could imagine. If they could have lifted Church Street – the main avenue, from the middle of the district and moved it someplace else – they would have tried years ago.
Marco counted the cards in his hands and slammed them down on the table. As he did, there was the sound of gunfire echoing and vibrating through the thin windows of the house.
“Is some lunatic opening up on the Walk again?” he complained.
He walked to the front window that looked out onto the street. Two dozen people were standing, loitering or moving through – but the sounds of gunshots either sent them into a stunned reverie or running for cover. The curious ones stayed out in the open, hoping to somehow scry more information about what was going on through their mere presence.
Marco heard even more. He couldn’t count how many shots were being fired. It was a full-blown gunfight, with multiple participants. Benny approached from behind to get a closer look for himself.
“Bloody hell – they’re really going for it!”
The noise settled down, and Benny returned to his chair now that the party was over. Marco remained in his spot. He was stubborn to a fault, and he knew that it wasn’t going to be a simple matter of some gang members arguing over a game of poker. His eyes were locked onto the dark alleyway directly across from the porch. Even during the daytime, it could be tough to discern who was coming through there, but he did notice a shadowy figure running like their life depended on it.
Marco knew how to identify a Walk when he saw one. They wore white, either as a part of their ensemble or by using a rag tied around one arm or leg. They had a very particular way of dressing beyond that too. Brimmed hats, suspenders, colourful neckerchiefs, and cut-off pants that exposed their ankles and shins. These could be worn individually or as a complete set to identify themselves.
There wasn’t a spec of white to be seen on the man who staggered through the darkness and onto the road, because every part of him was stained red instead. He was drenched in a thick layer of blood, dripping down from his chest, head and onto the cobbles below.
“Benny! Take a look at this!”
The Walk was covered from head to toe in viscera. These were the kinds of wounds that were caused by a gunshot. Marco had seen it a thousand times before, a young guy on the street getting slashed to ribbons by some overeager rival.
Before the injured gangster could reach the other side of the road, a cloaked figure appeared seemingly from nowhere, tackling him to the ground and raising a menacing dagger into the air. Screams filled the onlookers’ ears as they rained down a series of attacks, puncturing his chest, lungs and other vital organs two dozen times within the span of ten seconds.
Marco was aghast, “Crazy bastard! What the hell is he doing?”
The gang member struggled and clawed, pulling down on their cloak and succeeding in little else. The strength quickly left their body, and they slumped down into the gutter with glassy eyes and an open mouth. The assailant stood up, covered in his blood, and twisted around to find Marco spectating the violent display through his front window.
Marco felt an unusual sense of unease.
He’d seen violence on the streets before. It was a fact of life for him and the others who grew up around Church Walk. Something was different about this. Even the most reckless gang members tried to keep it out of civilian view. No such concern was shown by the killer here and now. He attacked the Walk with a single-minded obsession, and he cared not for the consequences should he be caught by the police.
The killer was staring right at him. Was he looking at him, or past him? He didn’t seem at all concerned about the large number of witnesses that surrounded him. They were shocked, appalled, and some nauseated by the vicious assault. A lone woman wailed whilst leaning against a set of stairs, eyes covered and legs shaking.
And then there was his skin. Sickly, pale, almost as white as a sheet. He looked like a dead man walking, like there wasn’t a single drop of blood left in his body. The cold air that day should have brought some kind of colour to his cheeks – yet they remained untouched by any pigment. Marco swore that his veins ran black with tar, peeking out from the scarf wrapped around his neck.
He lurched to the left and started to ascend the steps. Benny pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed it squarely at the door. Marco remained still. He waited. Then, a series of loud, heavy knocks echoed through the room. Benny was starting to lose his cool.
“What are we gonna’ do?”
“Ignore him,” Marco ordered. He found an angle where he could watch the murderer at the door. His head remained pointed towards the door, even when he could see Marco out of the corner of his eye.
Benny released the safety on his gun in case he tried to break in. He wanted so badly to shoot through the wooden barrier that separated them and end it, yet he was also bound by Marco’s orders. Marco was not going to be pleased if he gave his house’s door a set of new holes to breathe through.
“He’s not moving,” Marco relayed.
“Anybody trying to grab him?”
“No. They’ve all run away, and there aren’t going to be any police officers for four or five blocks.”
He took a single step back and raised his palm towards the door.
It happened so quickly that Marco found no time to react and warn Benny about what he was doing. An ear-bursting bang rocked the entire building. The door was shredded to pieces from a concussive blast, sending fragments of wood into Benny’s body and face. He flew across the room and almost into the kitchen at the back.
“Benny!”
The man turned and charged at him with his knife bared. Marco acted fast and drew his gun. There was no time to adjust his aim or think twice about it. He pulled the heavy trigger and hoped that it would be enough to stop him from gutting him like a fish.
It didn’t.
Marco’s reactions were better than most. Sensing that the momentum of his body was carrying him forward regardless of his gunfire – he leapt to the left and put the table between himself and the attacker. Benny was still trying to recover from the shock of the blast that blew the door off its hinges.
Stolen story; please report.
“Benny! The gun, shoot them!”
That stirred him back to awareness. Benny rolled over, his face and chest covered in a curtain of blood that now leaked from the opened wounds. It wasn’t enough to put him down, and luckily the shrapnel didn’t get into his eyes.
Benny scrambled to find where his gun had gone after the shockwave. His ears were still ringing from being in close proximity to the magical attack. The entire room had been upturned by the spell, and dozens of papers, decorative objects and other refuse had been thrown onto the floor.
Benny threw a stack of papers aside and found his pistol, still loaded and ready to fire. The attacker was already moving to try and stab Marco again. Benny took the pistol and fired three shots in his direction, with two striking him in the arm and forcing him back towards the front window.
“He’s still up!” Marco yelled, “He’s some kind of monster!”
Benny fired another set of rounds. The window shattered and debris flew. The killer was visibly affected by the force of the shots hitting his body, but he still wasn’t done. He kept moving, his eyes never faltering from Marco no matter what happened to him.
“Keep shooting! He’s still moving!”
Marco reunited with Benny by the kitchen door. Benny frantically forced another magazine into his gun with shaking, splinter-filled fingers. Marco shook his head. The killer marched on. They shot again.
Marco couldn’t believe it. Both of them had already shot the knife-wielding manic five times in the chest, but he was still standing like it didn’t even phase him! Even the kinetic force of the bullet hitting his chest wasn’t enough to slow his charge when it should have knocked him to the ground from shock.
“Kill him, use everything if you have to!”
A riotous rain of gunfire followed. Benny and Marco continued to unload every bullet in their respective magazines, sending blood and fragments flying in the process. The attacker remained standing. He refused to go down. He stood there with gritted teeth and clenched knuckles, leaning into each shot and advancing step by step.
But even the most powerful creatures in existence couldn’t withstand that kind of assault. He slowed to a stop, fell to his knees, and then collapsed into a bloody heap on the floor of Marco’s living room. The smell of gun smoke was suffocating.
“What... what in the Goddess’ good name was that?” Benny gasped.
Marco was stunned into silence. He could only stand there and stare at the hole-filled corpse that now occupied his safe house. What possessed him to break down his door and try to kill both of them? He didn’t attack any of the other witnesses. He only came for them.
“Unbelievable. I don’t know.”
That wasn’t adrenaline pushing him forward in a last-gasp attack. No human could have managed to survive that much damage to their body and keep moving. It defied all reason. It was unprecedented.
“The police are going to be sniffing around now!” Benny fretted.
Marco gathered himself; “I don’t keep any illegal shit in my safehouse, idiot. It wouldn’t be much of a safehouse if I did!”
He’d need to keep a cool head and explain what happened. There were other eyewitnesses on the street who could back up their version of the story. It was under control. He could handle it. All he had to do was get his story straight.
Marco reloaded his weapon and carefully approached the smoking corpse. He was not going to risk being caught off-guard by him again. He pushed the side of the man’s head with the tip of his boot, only relaxing when he discovered that there was no pushback from his tensed muscles.
What he wanted to see was the man’s face. He pulled the hood down from his head to get a clearer view in the morning sunlight. It was exactly as he first thought. Something horrible had happened to him. He was deathly pale, with skin that hadn’t seen the touch of oxygenated blood in some time. The whites of his eyes were turned an ill off-yellow, and the veins in his neck and eyes were black.
“What is this?” he murmured.
Surely it had to do with his inhuman durability. Marco had seen some incredible displays of human durability and tenacity before, but never like this. He and Benny turned into a two-man firing squad and perforated his flesh no less than fifteen times during their fight. The shock and trauma of broken bones and ruptured organs should have ended it quickly.
It was anything but. Whatever he’d done to himself – it meant that the fight didn’t end in the blink of an eye, it demanded no less than his body being torn to pieces, bit by bit, under a hail of bullets. Even the blood that leaked from those brutal gunshot wounds was darker than it should have been. It was as if someone had mixed oil into his bloodstream, separate but together.
Benny was too focused on picking pieces of wood from his skin to pay any attention to those details. Marco stepped back and observed the destruction caused to his living room with a weary sigh. He’d need to pick up the scattered cash and hide it before the police came calling.
“Shit, that hurts!” Benny complained, nursing his injured hand.
“Use the stuff in my medicine cabinet. I’d disinfect those wounds right away.”
----------------------------------------
“Veronica, can we speak in private?”
That wasn’t an offer of choice. It was an order. Veronica placed her book down on the desk and followed Ms. Frankfort to her office, making sure to close the door behind her to keep curious ears away from their discussion.
“Why do you need me?” Veronica inquired.
Ms. Frankfort turned the page and re-read the report that was now occupying her time, “A body was brought into the morgue at the Priory a few hours ago. That wouldn’t be unusual given the gang violence we see in the area – but the description of the body has aroused no small amount of suspicion from me.”
Frankfort offered the page to Veronica, who started to read the details that had been given to the police by the coroner. It was a bizarre list of symptoms. Pale skin, squalid eyes, tainted blood and the ability to endure a punishment amount of damage without dying.
“It looks to me as if the dead have risen...”
“Normally I wouldn’t ask you to handle busywork like this, I was happy to let the officers there handle the matter, but the Superior Lieutenant came to me and told me to take care of it.”
‘Take care of it’ was a not-so-subtle way of informing Veronica that someone on the inside of WISA was being a very naughty boy or girl. A select number of field agents with experience similar to hers were often used to weed out bad actors, long tenured agents who showcased their dedication to the agency whom the Superior officers could trust with internal affairs.
She checked the police report again. According to eyewitnesses, the person they picked up was involved in a set of other murders near Church Street. A group of Walk gang members were found dead. Detectives concluded that the attacker stole one of their weapons and launched a surprise attack.
They then travelled across the block and stabbed one of the survivors to death in plain view of the civilians in the area. They approached one of the houses, blew through the door with explosive magic, and were only stopped when the inhabitants of that house shot him two dozen times.
“Who’s on the hook?”
“One of the information officers, Bernard Jones. He appeared at the morgue and tried to obstruct the police report – but he cleared out once it was obvious that the story was going to work its way back to me. I’m very concerned about this report. It could spell trouble for our security situation.”
Bernard Jones was one of the war hawks in the information-gathering department. While Frankfort held apprehensions about letting the military get their hands on the Book of Cambry, the likes of him were cheering on from the sidelines. It was going to be a problem if he had direction connections to them.
“I want you to find out what Bernard knows, and bring back whatever you can about how the body ended up in that state in the first place.”
“I’ll get to work right away, then.”
Veronica bowed respectfully and stepped out of the room. What a meddlesome job she was being given. Veronica hated working on internal affairs, and Frankfort was being light on the details to make her life even harder. Misconduct by an officer should have been handled by the managers, at least in her eyes.
Bernard was going to be keeping his head down now that he was marked for getting involved in a police investigation without orders. The shooting was four hours ago, which meant getting the witness statements, moving the body and filing the initial autopsy report were done quickly. Even more unusual was that it was escalated to WISA’s notice by a government minister on the very same day.
There were about to be a lot of butting heads in the cabinet. The hydra was starting to eat at itself again, with the civilian members afraid of poking the beehive and the military hawks pulling strings to try and get one over on them.
The morgue was a short walk from the WISA office. Veronica left the building and moved through the streets at a brisk pace. Time was of the essence when dealing with people’s memories. Bernard was going to be putting as much excusable distance between himself and the body as possible in the meantime.
She arrived at the morgue at a record pace and climbed the front stairs. There was a police officer waiting for her in the lobby.
The officer nodded, “I just got the call from upstairs. Are you Miss Veronica?”
“Veronica is fine. I’d like to see the body, and speak with the people who’ve been handling it.”
A flurry of activity brought her to the cool surgery room where the deceased criminal was laid out on a long wooden table. A man wearing a blood-stained smock and a pair of glasses greeted her. The officer stayed in the room with them. Veronica knew the doctor by name.
“Good evening John.”
“Hello, Veronica. I didn’t expect to see you when the day started...”
Veronica approached the body and took a close look at it. The statement that Frankfort received undersold how mangled they were. The impact on their complexion was evident – but several dozen bullets ripping through flesh and bone left them looking worse for wear.
“It took this much to kill him?”
“I’m not so sure,” John said, erring on the side of caution, “The two men who killed him might have done it to prove a point. I can’t confirm whether the first few or the last few shots were the fatal ones.”
The officer spoke up; “The men were very insistent that he was under a strange spell of madness. The detectives also spoke with witnesses from the previous killings he committed and they offered a similar perspective.”
John sighed, “There was a deep incision, a knife wound, in his chest. That would have disabled most people.”
“And what’s wrong with his blood?” Veronica asked.
“Now that’s a genuine mystery. I have no idea. I sent it off for analysis and they came back with a report that only states that it has a strong magical charge. It’s extremely conductive, and they think it allowed him to expel a huge amount of energy in a short span of time – like how he busted down the door at the scene.”
It looked like oil, but it didn’t mix with the blood properly.
“If we go back to the stab wound, I noticed that this blood mixture is extremely effective at preventing bleeding. It’s heavier than it should be, though that begs the question of how his heart managed to pump it around his body. I’d cut open an incision to collect one of the bullets and it’d close up right in front of my eyes before I could do anything!”
A mysterious fluid, injected or ingested into the body that could enhance someone’s latent magical abilities and turn them into an unstoppable killing machine. Was it any wonder why the military wanted to get their hands on him before WISA did? Veronica’s brow furrowed further at the implications of the technique getting out.
“What are the side effects?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I believe that he was about to suffer a cardiac arrest from the elevated amount of activity he performed during the two attacks. I need more time to investigate.”
That was superfluous information. Veronica knew why Bernard risked burning his spot to keep them away from the body now.
“The last officer who showed up, Bernard, what did he say to you?”
“He came busting through the front door, flashed his badge, and said that he was taking the body into WISA’s custody. He was a violent scrote, that one. I was in the middle of slicing the guy open and he was trying to pull me away.”
“He was here for an hour, but he left in a hurry when he heard that another officer was being arranged to come and look at him,” the policeman added.
“He does right. I’m going to wring his neck when I find him.”
“He didn’t say much of note to us. I turned my back for a moment and he was gone.”
Veronica came to a snap decision. She had some authority to control the situation.
“Under WISA article five, rule three, I’m ordering both of you into protective information gathering. I don’t want a single other soul taking a look at this body until one of the Superior Officers says so. Nobody’s allowed to look at it, and if they ask you, both of you don’t know a bloody thing. I want that door locked tight.”
John groaned, “PIG again? You know how much I hate PIG.”
“Hate it all you want – but there’s a serious risk of an intelligence leak happening here. Do you want to march your arse into the courts and explain how you had nothing to do with it getting out?”
PIG was a process which WISA agents could deploy at will, save for when they were deployed in the presence of a Superior Officer. Policemen and other affiliated staff like John were given legal protection and could invoke PIG in a court of law should the need arise. In return, they were expected to go into lockdown and avoid speaking with anyone outside of the investigation team.
Veronica suspected that the stiff was connected to the military. That meant that at the very least his mere existence was highly confidential. There was a heightened risk of sensitive information leaking or interlopers trying to meddle with the investigation. John and the other officers in the morgue were now bound by a strict rule of silence.
One could ‘butcher the PIG’ conditionally with permission from the WISA agent who invoked the order.
“Does this extend to other WISA agents?” John inquired.
“You saw how Bernard was acting earlier. Zip it. Your liaison is Frankfort. I want a full report, autopsy, and a witness statement from everyone in this building about what Bernard did and what he said.”
There was no arguing with Veronica. The order was legally binding upon dispatch, and her word would carry a lot more weight than theirs if it came down to who said what and when. She would have preferred a less severe option, but if she was going to do the job, she was going to do it right.
“Officer, with me.”
Veronica left the surgery. It was time to tediously question every person in the building...