Albert rolled off the sofa and stretched, trying to shake the aches and pains of a night days sleep on the Sofa. Picking up a nearby mug, he walked into the bathroom. Running cold water he splashed it over his face, washing off the night. Washing off the failure that sank through his chest at the discovery of Paloma. A woman who just wanted to find her fiancé. Wash off the discovery of Scott, another would be hero trying to stumble down the path that would lead to either fame or an early grave. Then the night of gifts just kept on giving. As he returned to the office, looking into every last note he had ever made about Palomas case, there had been a knock at the door. Rock. Another ghost from the past, and the worst kind. One who had seen through his alias almost instantly, even these days he couldn't escape the shadows of his fathers legacy.

Rock had been an unwelcome shock to the system. In hindsight he should have known that the death of Saw would have brought him home, but he hadn't expect it to bring Rock knocking on his door looking for Saws killer. He had to admit that in his ignorance he hadn't even put a second thought to the death of The Mountain, why would he? He had virtually nothing in the way of resources. Vanguard was an organisation with thousands of employees. If Vanguard wasn't able to find Saws killer, what hope did he have?

Albert put his hands back down on the sink, as he closed his eyes. He thought he had brushed his mug, he was sure he heard it fall, he heard a scrape as he opened his eyes and noted to his surprise that the mug was still there. Rinsing the mug out he swirled the cold water in his mouth, washing out the days overindulgence of coffee. Spitting it out in the sink, he poured the mug out and sighed. From his pocket he heard the familiar tone of his phone. Slipping it from its position within his pocket he flipped it open and looked at his caller id. [ANDREW SAMPSON] Pushing the answer button he placed it beside his ear, and leaned his head to hold the phone in position while he finished washing his hands.

"Mornin', what you got for me?"

"Afternoon Dom, I've got a Paloma Torres here on the table. She one of yours?"

Dominic Dusk smiled a sad smile to himself in the mirror. This wasn't over yet, he'd find her killer and when he did, he'd see how just he was feeling.

The routes made no sense.

Bret had spent the better part of three hours trying to convince himself otherwise.

The office attached to Saint Brigid’s looked less like a workspace and more like the aftermath of a nervous breakdown. Maps covered nearly every available surface. Shipping manifests sat beside photographs. Names, addresses and delivery times had been scribbled onto yellow notepads before being crossed out and rewritten elsewhere.

Somewhere inside the chaos was a pattern. The Pilgrim insisted there was. Bret just couldn’t see it yet. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at tired eyes. There were three confirmed distribution points so far; two abandoned warehouses and a nightclub. There were no named distributors but based on a symbol printed on the paperwork, he could assume that one avenue was the American Dragons.

King’s Blood moved through Calder like water through cracked stone. There was no obvious hierarchy or central hub of supply that he could see. There was no efficient route. Everything about the operation seemed designed to be deliberately inefficient. Which bothered him more than it should. Criminals liked efficiency. Smugglers liked efficiency. Intelligence agencies practically worshipped it. Yet every time Bret mapped a shipment, it doubled back on itself. Crossed districts unnecessarily. Passed through locations that should have served no logistical purpose whatsoever. Almost as though the destination wasn’t the point.

The confusion of it all began to seek intentional, that was the only logic Bret could apply to the situation.

A television mounted high in the corner of the office continued playing to an audience of absolutely nobody. Father Riordan often left it running during the day. Normally Bret tuned it out. He had barely noticed it at all.

“…our continuing retrospective on Calder City’s forgotten heroes…” He ignored it. “…many younger residents have never heard of…” Ignored. “…The Wayfarer.” Bret froze. The pen in his hand stopped moving. The room suddenly felt very quiet. “…Brian Fleming first appeared in Calder City during the late eighties…”

Against his better judgement, Bret looked up. The documentary displayed grainy footage from another era. A younger city. A younger world. A younger man. The image wasn’t particularly clear. Old news footage rarely was. But even through decades of visual degradation, Bret recognized him immediately. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. The posture. The eyes. It was like looking at a version of himself that had lived a completely different life.

“…known primarily for rescue operations and missing person recoveries, The Wayfarer became famous for his ability to navigate impossible situations.”
The footage shifted. A collapsed building surrounded by emergency vehicles. Heaving crowds of both excited and terrified onlookers. Then Brian Fleming emerging from the wreckage carrying a child. The crowd erupted and then the reporter’s voice continued.

“Unlike many heroes of his generation, The Wayfarer rarely pursued notoriety. He worked independently for most of his career and often disappeared for weeks or months at a time following investigations.” Bret found himself standing. He hadn’t consciously made the decision.

The documentary moved to interviews. Old firefighters. Retired police officers. People who’d known the man. People who remembered him. “He always showed up.” An elderly firefighter smiled at the camera. “If there was a way through, he’d find it.” Another voice. A former detective. “Never met anyone quite like him.” The detective laughed softly. “Most heroes charged toward danger. Brian followed it.”

Something about that statement unsettled Bret. Because it sounded familiar. Far too familiar.

The documentary continued. The years passed. The footage changed. The Wayfarer grew older. More weathered. More isolated.

Then the narrator’s tone shifted.

“Several years before his disappearance, colleagues noted a significant change in Fleming’s behaviour.” Bret felt his stomach tighten. “He became increasingly isolated and his routine disappearances became more frequent, lasted longer until eventually the day came where he never came back.”

Bret’s breath caught in his throat.

“Where is the Wayfarer? It is a question that has boggled Calder City for over twenty years. Every theory is slightly stranger than the last. Some say he simply retired, others that he died, some say that he’s still wandering, still searching. For all that we don’t know, what know for a certain that The Wayfarer, Brian Fleming was a different kind of hero. He never smiled for the camera, he didn’t stop to shake hands and kiss babies. He followed roads into danger, no thought for himself and he made sure to light the way home for any lost souls he found on the path. March on, Wayfarer.”

As the broadcast ended, Bret collapsed back into his chair.

A strange feeling that he couldn’t really identify washed over him. He didn’t know his father, he couldn’t really remember him either. His blessed mother told him stories, tall tales of a hero who always knew where to go. Bret didn’t really believe them until he gained his own abilities but by that point, Brian was long gone. Back to Calder, back to the mystery and toward whatever fate befell him. He didn’t really have a solid idea of what happened to his dad. On certain mornings, he wasn’t even sure he cared.

Bret thought of loss in that moment, of those no longer with us. His dad, of course. His mother, the way she just faded in a way that seemed mostly peaceful. He thought of Dean Cowan. Cressida had not gone into specifics of what happened to him but knowing Dean, he likely went down fighting. Bret thought of Tae. He truly hoped that the boy was ok and that he could find him sooner rather than later.

Every one of them was a lamb of God and wherever any of them were, Bret hoped they were at peace.

His eyes returned to the map and schedule that sat before him. There had to be a weak link in the chain. Something, somewhere that didn’t fit the pattern or more specifically lack there of. Perhaps if he couldn’t get to them through friends, maybe there was a way to figure this out via enemies?
A couple of these routes ran through the territories of some of Calder City’s other less desirables.

Surely going to be pissed off enough to talk? At least, Bret hoped. Because at that moment there all he had.

Hope.