[center][hr][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/260527/ac7c9f7b.png[/img][hr][/center] The gun went off. The sound was deafening inside the stairwell. Bret felt the round pass close enough to brush his coat before he slammed the shooter’s wrist against the concrete wall. The pistol clattered away. A second man crashed into him immediately. Too fast. Too heavy. This big fuck was a Gray or more likely given the circumstances, on King’s Blood. Bret hit the railing hard enough to rattle the entire staircase. Pain exploded through his ribs. The same ribs that had been stitched together less than twenty-four hours ago. [color=C8E39A]“I hate everything.”[/color] The enhanced man grabbed him by the throat. Bret’s boots left the floor. The Pilgrim screamed warnings. Wrong angle. Wrong position. Wrong path. The man drove him into the wall and the concrete cracked behind him. For a brief moment Bret’s vision blurred, not because of the impact but because he’d made a mistake. The Pilgrim wasn’t certainty. It never had been. It showed paths, not outcomes. And sometimes, most of the time, Bret had a tendency to choose wrong. The man’s fist connected with his jaw. Then again. Then again. Bret tasted blood in the crease between his teeth and cones as the world tilted. The stairwell became motion. Possibilities. Momentum. The enhanced thug raised his arm. Bret saw it then. Not the punch. The railing. Loose bolts, a structural weakness. A path. He shifted his weight and the punch missed. He kicked his feet back, pressing them against the damaged wall and pushed off as hard as he could, forcing himself and his would be attacked into and through the railing. The metal screamed and both men crashed through it. Three floor of free falling before the impact. The thug hit first and Bret landed badly next to him. His shoulder dislocated instantly. Pain lanced through him. For a second neither moved. The sound of sirens echoed somewhere outside beyond the shattered windows. The thug groaned and started to stand. So did Bret. Slowly. The fight quickly continued. Because sometimes that’s all fights were.Not choreography nor heroics. Sometimes it was just two stubborn men refusing to stay down. Though quickly the other man collapsed and Bret remained standing. Barely. He looked at the unconscious criminal. Then at his own shaking hands. Then at the blood dripping from his sleeve. [color=C8E39A]“Should’ve took that job at McDonalds.”[/color] [hr] Saint Brigid’s was dark when he returned. The side entrance clicked shut behind him and the silence welcomed him like an old friend. Ancient stone. Familiar shadows. Safety. At least for a little while. Bret sat heavily in a storage room converted into a makeshift office. The church first aid kit lived beneath his desk. For entirely legitimate reasons, of course. He reset his shoulder himself. The resulting noise was deeply unpleasant. Then came antiseptic which stung worse than the pointed words of an ex-girlfriend or disappointed parent. The routine was becoming depressingly similar; bandages, fresh bruises, stitches and a cornucopia of fresh regrets. An hour later he sat alone in the sanctuary. The candles flickered in the darkened room and the wider city felt distant here. Bret preferred it that way. He had not been in Calder that long but he had been there long enough to develop a dislike of it. There were good people, there were more bad ones. It was really no surprise that it had such a large number of superheroes and villains. It felt like the type of place town straight out of a comic book. Maybe that’s why his father went back? Maybe The Wayfarer couldn’t handle the quiet of the fells and mountains of rural England and felt the need to get back to the hustle and bustle of the city. It was strange, really. When Bret took the job at Saint Brigid’s and moved to the States, he thought he was going to discover a secret life that his father had. That something that would be revealed in this home of heroes that perhaps would shed light on his life. He didn’t. There was no statue of The Wayfarer in Memorial Park. There was no plaque honouring him. There were stories, sure. Stories of the hero that went back into burning buildings and guided people out. Though that was often overshadowed by another hero freezing the flames with ice breath or some crap. Bret had no desire to follow in his footsteps. He was not going to don the spandex and wait for a signal in the sky. He would help people in the only way he knew how, the way he was taught. Efficiently. His phone rested beside him. He glanced down from the altar and at the photograph of Tae Park that had remained on screen since he found it. The dots were starting to form connections. It seemed, at least to Bret, that Tae was dealing King’s Blood for this El Jefe character. A few calls in the right places helped fill out some of the other details. Tae was seventeen, parents both deceased. Only family he had was his sister So-Mi, who dropped out of college to look after him. Bills add up, they always do, dealing becomes a way to quickly make some change to keep the lights on and fold in the fridge. Tae sees an opportunity, sell on the side, make a little extra. Jefe doesn’t like this so Tae goes on the run. It was a classic tale, save the fact that the drug in question could turn people into walking tanks or gelatinous cubes that could shoot fireballs. Bret also had to assume, given what had occurred earlier that evening, that Tae was using the King’s Blood himself. The way he disappeared in that warehouse, Bret was a millisecond behind. There was no way it was a secret door or a getaway vehicle. He just vanished and there was no trace. All that meant was that the path still existed. Bret just simply hadn’t found it yet. A vibration interrupted his thoughts. Encrypted channel. D9. Again. This time he answered straight away. A small projector hidden at the top of his phone activated. Blue light unfolded into the colour and shape of one [url=https://www.instyle.com/thmb/SPousgmAynKhvxYoJGhefIzPg6I=/1500x0/filters:no_upscale():max_bytes(150000):strip_icc()/20-kaya-scoladero-lead-2000-c634035ac1a24f4d952868b614010005.jpg]Cressida Billington.[/url] Even as a hologram she looked disapproving. An impressive achievement but if anyone could make it work and still have time to be attractive, it was Cress. [color=D2AB4C]“You look like shit, babe.”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“Why does everyone keep telling me that?.”[/color] Her crystal blue eyes narrowed. [color=D2AB4C]“Because you do, darling.”[/color] She placed her hands on her hips as she cocked an eyebrow. [color=D2AB4C]“Are we in the church? Thank God I’m a projection otherwise I’d likely be melting for my sins.”[/color] The hologram sighed. A very Cressida sigh. The sort that suggested disappointment had become a permanent emotional state. [color=D2AB4C]“What do you need, Bret? Because I know, even after my message about Cowan, this isn’t a social call.”[/color] Straight to business. Also very Cressida. [color=D2AB4C]“And if you make a joke about it being a booty call, I swear to your beloved God Bret…”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“I need money.”[/color] A pause. [color=C8E39A] “A discretionary fund. Off the books, if you can swing it?.”[/color] [color=D2AB4C]“No.”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“I haven’t explained why yet.”[/color] [color=D2AB4C]“Don’t care.”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“Cressida.”[/color] [color=D2AB4C]“Nope.”[/color] Bret smiled despite himself. She noticed immediately. Which somehow made her more irritated. She hated that damn, stupid, awful, charming smile of his. [color=D2AB4C]“What are you planning, babe?”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“I’m looking into a missing person. The type that falls through the cracks if someone like me doesn’t help out.”[/color] There was no reason for Bret to try and tug on Cressida’s heart strings. She, like him, had seen far more in her life than she needed to and was jaded by it but unlike him, she didn’t ever question the orders that resulted in that skepticism. [color=C8E39A]“I’ve got a lead, need to go to the Velvet Room.”[/color] That changed things. Immediately. The quiet amusement vanished and Directorate Nine analyst emerged. [color=D2AB4C]“The speakeasy? Bret, sweetpea. You’re not just investigating a missing person, you’re investigating King’s Blood distribution.”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“No, I’m investigating a missing person.”[/color] [color=D2AB4C]“Which inevitably becomes a King’s Blood distribution. Trust me on this, boo. D9 is aware of this growing issue”[/color] Cressida folded her arms. Even holographically she managed to look expensive. [color=D2AB4C]“You don’t even work for us anymore.”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“I know.”[/color] [color=D2AB4C]“You don’t have the right credentials.”[/color] [color=C8E39A]“I know.”[/color] [color=D2AB4C]“You certainly don’t have a suitable suit. Like do you own anything that doesn’t come in flannel?”[/color] Bret glanced down at his bloodstained coat.[color=C8E39A]“Fair.”[/color] [color=D2AB4C]“I’ll transfer funds. You owe me for this, Bret. I mean it. I’m putting my perfectly pert Pilates arse on the line for you here.”[/color] The hologram flickered. Then softened slightly. Only slightly. [color=D2AB4C]“Try not to get shot again and give me a call sometime, yeah? I’d like to have one conversation with you where you’re not bleeding out and I’m not worried about losing my job for giving you a hand.”[/color] Bret made a heart with his hands eyebrow. [color=C8E39A]“You’re the best, Cress”[/color] She rolled her eyes. [color=D2AB4C]“And you’re a cunt.”[/color] The connection terminated. [hr] The Velvet Room existed beneath the neon lights of the Later District, in rooms that officially didn’t exist. Naturally. The entrance was hidden. Entry might’ve required a recommendation or enough money to convince the staff you belonged there. Fortunately for Bret, a Directorate 9 expense account remained surprisingly useful. The new suit helped; Cress picked it out because of course she did. Dark charcoal. Tailored. Expensive enough to hurt his feelings. Bret descended a hidden staircase. Music drifted through the air as he entered the club. It was filled with low conversation, crystal glasses and a myriad of different external allegiances. There were political fixers nestled next to known criminals. There were wealthy socialites mixing with superheroes and supervillains alike. All of them, the sort of people who preferred their sins accompanied by a live piano. Nobody noticed him. Which suited Bret perfectly. The Pilgrim stirred quietly beneath his skin. Not giving him any kind of warning but it was observing and following threads. This room was one filled with all kinds of paths, connections and possibilities. Somewhere in this place somebody knew something that would get Bret one step closer to finding Tae Park. He just needed to find them. He made his way to the bar, taking his seat next to a brunette who held presence like gravity itself was hers to control. He looked at the bartender who raised a hand. “Vodka Martini? Shaken not stirred I’m guessing?” Bret smiled. [color=C8E39A]“Nah, just a pint of the best thing on draught please, mate.”[/color] [hr] Several miles away. In a cluttered apartment illuminated by half a dozen monitors. Someone sat cross-legged in an office chair. Empty coffee cups surrounded them like fortifications. Security feeds filled every available screen. Traffic cameras. Business cameras. Private systems. Public systems.Some legal. Most not. A cursor followed a single individual moving through the Velvet Room. The suited man entering the establishment. The same man appearing on traffic footage. Church cameras. Warehouse footage. Hospital security. Saint Brigid’s. Again. And again. And again. They leaned closer. Brows furrowing. [i]“Who are you?”[/i] The man paused briefly at the bar. One camera caught his face. The software highlighted it instantly. A profile began building automatically. Not enough information. Not yet. But enough to be interesting.