[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/0pLJ5Hp.png[/img][/center][indent][color=fff200][sub][b]THE BOOK OF FATE[/b][/sub][/color][sup][right][color=fff200][b]Issue #2: CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED[/b][/color][/right][/sup][/indent][hr][indent][color=fff200][sub][b]Viceroy City Police Department [color=1E90FF]♦[/color] Viceroy City, South Carolina[/b][/sub][/color][sup][right][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ifSH0PRTSI][color=fff200]Music: Memories in Shadow[/color][/url][/right][/sup][/indent]
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Viceroy City was a crumbling husk of civilization. Back in the 50s it had been a bustling hub of activity, boasting over fifty thousand residents and acting as the seat of over a dozen corporate headquarters. The financial and political elite of the city were some of most important rising stars of the period- speculation had even been made that it might one day rival New York City in terms of economic and cultural importance.

It couldn't last forever.

Greed had rooted itself into the very foundations of Viceroy City. Everyone, from the highest offices to the lowest of the low, had become embroiled in a race for vanity and power. Not a single soul was clean of that dark influence, and for that reason powers beyond our understanding decided to intervene. Calamity befell Viceroy. A natural disaster, followed by a financial crash, culminated in political upheaval so widespread and violent that the city never recovered.

Much of the suburbs lay abandoned. Smashed windows, overturned cars and the crumbling remains of burned-out homes marred the outer layers of Viceroy, and traveling deeper within the city only revealed further disrepair. Entire office buildings were empty. Businesses on every corner boarded up, many of their 'for sale' signs covered in profane graffiti or rubbed clean of anything assembling words. Any business with a lick of sense had moved over to Greenville and hadn't looked back. Less than ten thousand people remain, those still there either too poor or too stubborn to leave with everyone else. 

The Viceroy City Police Department was one of the last remaining vestiges of authority in town, but even they were faltering. It was 8:30 PM and the station was nearly empty, every cop on their payroll busy dealing with some altercation, accident or some such. There was barely a skeleton crew remaining to deal with everything from phone calls, walk-ins, and all sorts of administrative duties.

That beleaguered staff couldn't really be blamed, then, for not noticing the sudden flash of light coming from inside the supply closet.

An odd man wrapped up in a fine suit of emerald fabric stepped out of the threshold first, a cigar jammed between impossibly perfect teeth- it's smoke was wafting up toward that smattering of ginger and white locks he called hair. He took a step to the side of the hall and pulled the door further open, motioning for another figure to join him.

Kent Nelson gave a reluctant shake of his head as he stepped out of the portal and into the dirty and rundown police station. It'd been decades since the last time he remembered getting Displacement Sickness- teleportation had once been trivial for the famed Doctor Fate. But Kent, the old magician with sagging jowls, deep wrinkles and arthritis in his hands? It was quite another matter entirely.

"Don' mind the stench," Corrigan chuckled, letting go of the door a second too soon, allowing it to smack up against Nelson's shoulder as he shuffled inside. "Think that's just the rats. Nothin' 'ta worry about, 'ol pal."

"The odor isn't what concerns me." Nelson mumbled. He could feel his connection to Order weakening by the second. There was a thick, repugnant power in the air that was stifling Fate's ability to commune with Nabu. It made him feel uneasy, like a thousand eyes were staring daggers into his back. A shaky hand found it's way into the pocket of his old suit jacket, running its fingers along the golden surface of Nelson's pocket watch. He could feel the whispers of Inza's comfort in its touch. And the pulsating power of Fate sketched into its very existence. "Chaos reigns here, doesn't it?"

Jim gave a nod. "One way'o puttin' it, yeah. Sorry fer bringin' you to a place like this, Doc, but I need your help."

"So you said earlier, but I'll need more details than that."

Instead of replying with a straight answer Jim chose to start walking down the hallway, setting a pace too brisk for Kent to easily match. Rather than protest he chose to follow, knowing full-well how beings like the Spectre operated. Ancient entities of judgement living within the corpses of long dead men didn't have a habit of being forthcoming with information. It was always games with these people...Even when lives were at stake, it was as if nothing truly mattered at all.

They rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the station's interrogation room, marked by a rusty plaque bolted onto the steel door. Corrigan waved his hand through the lock and forced it to pop open, allowing the two entry into the observation area. A one-way pane of glass in the wall with a desk sitting just underneath it, scattered files and papers lit by the light of a dying lamp.

Jim kept his eyes on the glass- or more specifically, the man beyond it- while he slid a file across the desk and toward Nelson. He waited until it was in Kent's hands to describe it's contents. "His name's Mitchell Shelley. Been calling himself 'Resurrection Man' since he got to Viceroy, though. You heard o' him?"

A pair of reading glasses slipped onto the end of Kent's nose from out of thin air. He thumbed through the files pages, but it didn't have much to tell. His priors were all vigilantism and various minor infractions related to that. Some two-bit meta playing at superhero, if he had to guess. "Should I have?"

The Spectre just shrugged, taking another puff from his cigarette. "Figure a guy like you knows a whole lot more'n the rest'o us. He's old school, like us. Been running away from Death since the first time some poor sobs tossed his body into a coffin."

"So he's immortal?" Kent raised a brow. "A rarity, I suppose, but I'm not sure why that would require my intervention."

"He's not just [i]immortal[/i]," Jim grunted, "He can't die, Kent. Period. End'a story. No loop holes, escape clauses, hell, we don't even know if there'sa expiration date. Man might live on past the known universe n' I wouldn't be all that surprised."

[i]That[/i] caught Nelson's attention. Death was supposed to be a certainty. It was one of the seven Abstracts- laws of existence that could [b]not[/b] be broken no matter what. Kent had heard of attempts to escape the fundamental guidelines of...well...everything, but he didn't think anyone could ever succeed. "How?"

"We dun know. Spectres before me spent a whole lotta time tryin' to put him down, but we've never had any luck. Hell, just this year he's gone down over eight hundred times and he's still chuggin' along like it ain't anything. Decided 'bout a hundred o' so years ago that it wasn't worth the effort 'ny more, so we made an...agreement with Mitch. A contract. Heaven wouldn't try'ta collect his soul anymore n' he'd go on being virtuous. Part of that agreement was that we couldn't talk to him without a 'neutral arbitrator' to ensure everything was on the up and up."

"And something's happened that requires contact, so you came to me." Kent finished, finally beginning to understand the situation. "Seems more suited to someone like the Sorcerer Supreme if you ask me."

"He's a busy fucker these days. You hear that apprentice'o his ran off? Kids these days, no respect. 'Sides, what kind'o friend would I be if I let you wallow in self-pity all the live long day?" Corrigan gave a slap to Nelson's shoulder that very well could've dislocated it. Nelson didn't so much at wince at the searing pain it sent through his ancient joints, too proud to let Jimmy see what had really become of him. "Now come on. Can't leave the ol' boy waitin' forever, now can we?"
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