“Then we’ll have to subdue you,” the detective said, getting up and approaching the circle of officers surrounding Ken. Are officers trained in hand to hand combat? Ken asked himself, weary of the movements of the six officers that surrounded him. Won’t matter, he concluded. I’ll clean up in five minutes.

A chill ran down his spine when he saw the officer in front of him make a slight movement with his hand, toward his holster. Spending his whole life fighting with his fists and training in practical seclusion for so long, Ken had forgotten about guns. I’m an idiot, he thought. They’ll just kill me and say I was allied with the poets. Maybe they’ll just say I am one—didn’t that guy say world governments are one by one finally starting to kill them en masse?

In a blur of movement, Ken dashed toward the officer closest to the detective and struck the back of his head with just enough force to knock him out. He took the pistol from his holster and made another dash for the detective. He wanted to get behind him above all else. The rest of the officers already had their pistols out, but hesitated to shoot with their superior so close to their target. Once behind him, Ken immediately went to subdue him by grabbing his arms and keeping them locked behind his back. Despite his speed, the detective understood his plan as soon as he took the gun from his subordinate and attempted to fight back. However, he was unarmed and couldn’t ever hope to stand up to Ken’s strength.

“Magic-user,” the detective snarled with distain.

“Not magic,” Ken replied, standing behind him as he got a sturdier hold of his arms. He had his arms locked with just his left, holding the pistol in his right. The five remaining officers had their pistols pointing at him, waiting for the order to shoot at the risk of killing their superior at the same time.

“What? You think because you don’t emit fireworks from your fingertips that it’s not magic? Humans don’t naturally move that fast!”

“Everything is natural,” Ken replied, lifting the pistol and pointing it at the detective’s head. The barrel was no more than an inch away from it. Everything is natural. Those were Iraltiphos’ words. Him and Ken had the debate on whether or not what they did was magic or not countless times and Iraltiphos always insisted that it wasn’t. Although Ken told the detective it wasn’t, he still didn’t completely understand his master’s argument. Something about energy at its most raw. Something about the self. Iraltiphos explained it better. Curse whoever killed him, Ken thought with anger.

“Put down your weapons and let me pass!” he shouted. He never said that he would kill the detective if they didn’t, but he figured the message was clear. He couldn’t bring himself to say something he wasn’t going to do. Fighting had been a sport and a hobby for him his entire life. He never imagined that there would come a day where he would have to kill somebody. The man who killed his master might be enough to get him to kill, but he probably wouldn’t stand a chance against somebody with that kind of power. What would he do if the officers don’t call his bluff?

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” the detective taunted. The officers didn’t budge. “Have you ever killed a man? Or was your training partner the first?” Ken felt his face get hot as he thought about what to do. At first he wondered how the detective had the audacity to question his resolve in his current position, but then realized that his hand had been shaking the entire time. He quickly aimed the pistol downward and shot his foot. A scream of agony erupted from the detective’s throat as he struggled to escape.

“Put your guns down!” Ken shouted louder this time. He shot the pistol two times in their general direction, missing on purpose. “Do it now!” The officers still didn’t budge. Ken lifted his left arm, forcing the detective’s arms to be pushed upward from behind, causing him further pain and to scream louder. “DO IT NOW!” They finally put their guns down and stepped aside. Ken dragged him away as he retreated from the scene, taking him to a rocky area on a nearby beach where they couldn’t be seen. “God, stop whining!” he mocked, throwing him into the sand when he knew they were far enough away.

“Try taking a bullet through your foot.”

“Try losing one of the last few people in this world that you care about!”

“Hey, I’m not the one who killed him. I’m not the one with my god damn DNA all over the crime scene!” the detective continued defiantly as he struggled to get to his feet. He leaned on a rock to keep himself up. “And why bring me all the way here? My guys let you through. You could have left me there.”

“I don’t believe you when you say Iraltiphos’ hands were on his own throat. What the hell does that mean? You can’t strangle yourself to death,” Ken explained. “It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and you’re not leaving here until I know what you’re hiding.”

“Are you being serious?” he replied, half laughing. “You’re either a really good actor or something is seriously wrong here.” Ken stared at him dumbfounded. “Your DNA being at the crime scene, in what’s his face’s wounds; you snapping as soon as I even slightly accused you, your fighting the arrest—if you didn’t do it I don’t know who the hell did!”

“You have no idea how strong he was. I couldn’t if I…”

“Do you even remember yesterday? Do you remember what you did yesterday?” Ken was dumbfounded yet again and immediately searched his memories to tell him and prove him wrong, but couldn’t retrieve anything. All he could remember was arriving to his master’s place and not being able to detect him. He only vaguely remembers finding him in the backyard. Everything else is gone. The horror showed on his face and the detective’s grin faded. “Wow, you really don’t remember. I was taking a stab in the dark.”
Ken didn’t respond. He kept trying to remember the day before, but tried in vain. It was just yesterday, he thought. How could I possibly forget? What the hell happened yesterday? “You probably strangled him by grabbing his hands and found a way to make yourself forget,” the detective said. Ken grimaced and glared at him.

“No. You know something. You’re putting ideas into my head,” Ken replied, pointing accusingly at him. “Who are you? Detectives don’t have the police force at their disposal last I checked.”

“Who cares who I am? Who are you? You resisted arrest, attacked officers, threatened officers, fired at officers, knocked one out, used me as a hostage and shot my foot. You’re a fugitive, son. And the more you waste time talking the more time that gives the police to find you.”

“Who are you?”

“You killed your training partner and repressed it from your memory. You kidnapped me just to have someone to deny your crime to! You’re a psychopath!”

Ken grabbed his forehead with his left hand and knifehand struck the back of his head to knock him out. The detective fell to the sandy ground and was silent. Ken buried his face in his hands, breathing heavily and at a loss of options. He looked at the path he came from and saw the trail of blood from the man’s wounds. “Well, he’s got one thing right at least,” Ken muttered to himself. “I need to get out of here.”

---

“Hello? What do you want?” Elise heard the unenthusiastic voice from the receiver.

“Hi! Dr. Plant? I had no idea we lived in the same apartment complex! I’ve been to a few of your shows and I’m a fan of your work,” she immediately replied, using her most pleasant sounding voice and thinking of what to say as she went along. “I’ve been practicing magic myself for a year now and I was wondering if we could briefly sit down and talk about your technique. I think it would help me out a lot.” She was stalling from giving him her real name. Would that be wise? She asked herself.

“My name is Elise, by the way. May I come up?” She put Abal into her back pocket.