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.

The Rat Reaper

Simon happily shook the hands of the customers, picked up the box with his new rodent friends in it and returned to his van. Turning the keys of the ignition the radio instantly popped on. "-now to those of you just tuning it, welcome to 104.5! Calder Cities most popular, and only, talk radio station! Remember to turn those dials to 104.5, or simply ask your smart-speaker to tune to CCT-Radioooo." Handbrake off, vehicle in drive. He merged effortlessly with the traffic, hands navigating the wheels by instinct more than any concious effort to control the vehicle. He knew where he was going, and could likely make this trip from anywhere in the city without looking at a map or a street sign even once.

The sound of the city, helped guide and push him. It wasn't echo location, and he couldn't fully describe the sensation but certain parts of the city just seemed to excude certain frequencies. So he followed the trail of the dull thud and the ebb and flow rhythm of the docks. "-I have to say for the first time since as far as I have known it really feels like the city is on the precipice of something major. We've become used too, and dare I say desensitized to the daily comings and goings off these heroes and villains as they tear their way through the city, used to cars brandishing the Vanguard emblem just driving down the street-"

Simon noticed a strange sound as he turned down Douglas Avenue through Lower East Calder. It was a strange buzzing that he wasn't used too, he could feel it in his head. Foot slightly heavier on the accelerator he pulled away from it, until moments later it caught up with him again. Frowning he looked in the rear view mirror, but, nothing out of the ordinary. Taxis, commuters, small trucks delivering goods to businesses. Various vans, many of them much like his own. "It is not just "edgy" or "rebellious." It is a direct incitement to violence. In what world is it acceptable to market a track that explicitly encourages teenagers to harm their parents? We are living in a society that is falling apart at the seams, and this DJ Wretched Rat is actively pouring gasoline on the fire for a few streams on TockBox and SnapShot."

Something caught his eye, a large black van. Had that been behind him before? He felt like he had seen that logo for most of the morning, had he seen it before? It was a circle with a graphic of a man inside it with his hands in the air. It wasn't a company he recognised, nor saw all over the city. Though he was sure it was a coincidence that he was noticing it now, just stuck inside his head there was nothing to worry about. "Yeah, so like, I was, like, talking to this friend of me, and he, like, totally said that his, uh, girlfriend or whatever, like..." No, had that van just made this turn? Was it the same one as before or were there multiple?

Shaken out of his reverie as he approached the docks, he ignored the buzzing in the back of his head and instead focused on the box ont he seat beside him. This was his favourite part of the job, Simons dad and all his coworkers killed the rats, rodents and other so-called 'pests' that they found. Simon however, he called to them. He captured them and he moved them to somewhere safe, somewhere where they wouldn't get into any trouble. As he approached the spot in the docks he always went too, an old abandoned warehouse with a public park out the back he slowed as the buzzing got louder. A second van already sat at the spot where he was going, but before he could reverse out the lane the van from before shot in behind him.None of you are young enough to remember, but I do. This happened before, back in '45, when the Equaliser-" The radio cut out at the same time the engine did.

This had to be a misunderstanding, right? Yeah, he told himself. These were likely either contracters or the new owners of the facility, probably had cameras set up and had seen him coming. Didn't want him releasing more pests here, that made sense. That was probably it. Stepping out of the vehicle, his heart-rate quickened as he saw a group of three men exit the truck behind him. They were all wearing black BDUs, dark sunglasses covering their eyes. The leader held some form of baton in his direction. He spat before he spoke, his voice coming out as a growl. Simon couldn't see his eyes, but he could feel the malice in them as his foosteps thundered closer.

"Just you stop right there. Freak."

By the time Bret returned to his apartment, he’d all but lost track of what day it was.

The city outside had settled into that strange hour where even Calder seemed tired. Rain drummed softly against the windows. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.

Then silence.

For once, nobody was actively trying to shoot him. Bret considered that a victory. The apartment lights flickered on as he stepped inside. Immediately he regretted the movement. His ribs protested. His shoulder wasn’t much happier. The bruises from the casino fight had darkened considerably over the last few hours, and the collection of cuts decorating his arms looked increasingly unpleasant beneath proper lighting.

“Right.”

The familiar routine began. Jacket off. Bandages off. Antiseptic. Regret. More antiseptic. More regret. He sat on the edge of his bed, carefully rewrapping his ribs while his mind drifted back toward the maps at Saint Brigid’s. The routes. The distribution network.

The television in the corner suddenly turned itself on. Bret frowned. He hadn’t touched the remote. Static filled the screen. Then advertisements. Then static again. His phone buzzed. Stopped. Buzzed again. The lamp beside the bed flickered. The kettle in the kitchenette clicked on. Off. On. Off. On. Bret slowly lowered the roll of bandages.

“…that’s not normal.”

The television volume suddenly jumped to maximum. An infomercial screamed across the apartment. Then the image distorted. Pixels twisted. Colours stretched. The screen dissolved into digital noise and a familiar face emerged from the chaos. Young. Dark-haired. Entirely too pleased with itself.

“You.” The face leaned closer to the camera. ”You look like shit.”

Bret blinked. The television blinked back. “…So-Mi?”

“Congratulations.” She pointed finger-guns directly through the screen. “You remembered my name! Someone buy the boy a biscuit.”

The lamp exploded. Not dramatically. Just enough to send sparks across the room. Bret stared at it. Then back at the television. Then back at the lamp. The microwave began displaying symbols that definitely weren’t part of the original software. “Well this is interesting.”

“I know, right?” She grinned. “Wait until you see what I did to three ATMs and a police database.”

Bret suddenly understood several things all at once. First; So-Mi Park had powers, which she did not tell him upon their first meeting. Second; this meant that his working theory that Tae was using King’s Blood himself and may have the ability to teleport, seemed more likely than before. Third; So-Mi had absolutely no intention of using her powers responsibly. Already, she did not seem the same as the woman who came to his church looking for help. There was a confidence that didn’t seem like it was there before. This begged the question, was she using Blood too? Or were her and Tae natural Gray’s?

The television volume increased by itself. “I’ve been watching you.”

“That’s concerning.”

“You’ve been investigating King’s Blood and been talking to criminals. You got into a fight at the casino and you’ve been hanging around with Tits McGee.”

The kettle switched itself on again. The apartment lights dimmed. Every screen in the room suddenly displayed So-Mi’s face. Phone. Television. Microwave. Even the smart thermostat. It was deeply unsettling.

“So let me get this straight.” The faces spoke simultaneously. Creepy. Very creepy. “My brother disappears, a super-drug starts flooding Calder, some lunatic crime lord is handing out powers and instead of finding Tae, you’re apparently taking J-Lo from Temu to casinos.”

Bret rubbed the bridge of his nose. His headache immediately worsened.

“I’m trying to…”

“I DON’T CARE!”

He watched his Alexa explode. That shut him up before he even considered speaking again.

So-Mi leaned closer to the screen. For the first time since appearing, the humour faded. The energy remained. The intelligence remained. But underneath both was something else. Fear. Real fear. “Tae isn’t dead and you need to find him, Bret, please! He’s all I have!” This was the first time since she appeared that she sounded like the scared sister that walked into Saint Brigid’s earlier that week.

Bret didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.

So-Mi looked away first and the screens flickered. Static briefly consumed the room. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. More dangerous. “If you can’t do this alone, I’ll find you some fucking help.”

The television switched off. The lights stabilized. The kettle finally surrendered. Silence returned to the apartment. Bret sat alone on the edge of the bed. Bandages half-finished. Mind racing. For several seconds he simply stared at the dark television screen.Then he sighed. Reached for the remaining bandages.

And added “cybernetic hacker gremlin” to the growing list of problems currently trying to ruin his life.

---

Across Calder City, several miles from Saint Brigid’s, a man sat alone in a private booth overlooking a crowded nightclub.

The music below shook the glass. Lights flashed. People danced. Drank. Forgot themselves. None of it seemed to interest him. His attention remained fixed on the small vial resting on the table before him. Luminous orange liquid swirled behind the glass. King’s Blood. The crown jewel of a growing empire.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Enter.” The voice was calm. Almost warm.

The door opened. A nervous young man stepped inside. No older than twenty. The sort of man who had spent the last several hours convincing himself everything would be fine.

“Jefe.”

The masked figure looked up. Black and gold. Elegant. Regal. The lucha mask concealed his face completely. Only his eyes remained visible. Patient. Amused. Dangerous. “The shipment arrived?”

The young man swallowed. “Yes.”

“And?”

A pause. Too long.

El Jefe smiled beneath the mask. The expression somehow still reached his eyes.

“We lost two couriers.”

The room grew silent. Music thumped somewhere far below. The young man visibly tensed. Waiting. Expecting anger. Violence. Punishment. Instead, El Jefe simply sighed. A disappointed father. Nothing more.
“That’s unfortunate.” El Jefe nodded then reached for the vial. Turning it carefully between gloved fingers. “Make sure their families looked after.”

The young man nodded quickly. “Of course.”

“Good.” The kingpin leaned back in his chair. Below, the nightclub roared with life. Above, the city stretched endlessly into the darkness. For a moment neither man spoke. Then, Jefe reached out his arm with the vial, offering it to the boy. ”When you’re done with the arrangements, you take this and you find whoever is delaying our shipments.”

The young man hesitated. “I’ve never….” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what it’ll do.”

El Jefe considered this but only for a moment. ”Well then, I guess we’ll find out together, won’t we?” The masked man stood with the nightclub lights reflected in his eyes. He turned fully to look at the boy and slipped the vial into his jacket breast pocket.
The crown embossed on the glass briefly caught the light. Then vanished.

Jefe placed his large hands on the cheeks of the young man in an embrace that was almost fatherly. Though the reality was much plainer. He didn’t even know this child’s name. “Keep up the good work, mijo.”

Beneath the city, hidden far below the streets of Calder, machinery continued to hum around thousands of gallons of luminous orange liquid.

The days that followed blurred together. Joanie had calmed down on the surface, but something in her had stayed tight and sore. She moved through the house with a short fuse, snapping at things she normally let slide. A new crack had appeared in their bedroom doorframe, spidering out from the hinge. Mina had noticed it first. Joanie ignored it.

She had told Mina and Trey about her conversation with Caleb in the diner, filling them in between moments of anger when she arrived home. She told them how Caleb had warned them to stay away from Harborlight. She told them he was mixed up in something dangerous. But she did not tell them about the Icelander. And she certainly did not tell them about the nightmare she had two nights ago, the one where she woke up gasping, convinced she could feel cold fingers closing around her throat.

Caleb had continued to reach out since the meeting, seemingly having remembered that he had Joanie’s number. He had texted her three times. Once to ask if she was safe. The subsequent times to apologise. She had not replied. She read them, before locking her phone and telling herself she would answer later. She never did. The messages sat there like small weights she refused to pick up.

In the meantime the house had only grown more chaotic. Rowan was still missing. Every hour that passed made it worse.

The three of them had spent hours moving through the homeless encampment under the overpass, weaving between tents made from tarps and blankets, calling Rowan’s name until their voices went hoarse. People watched them from the shadows, wary and silent. A few shook their heads when shown his picture. One woman said she thought she had seen a boy with stone patches on his arms two nights ago, but after further questioning it seemed like she was just after some cash so she could score.

The ground was muddy, the air smelled of smoke and damp clothes, and every unanswered call made the knot in Joanie’s chest tighten.

They were about to leave when an older man sitting by a barrel fire spoke up. His beard was grey and uneven, and his eyes were sharp despite the cold. He tapped the side of his nose with a gloved finger.

“Kids go missing in this city all the time,” he said. “Cops don’t look too hard unless someone pays them to.”

When they got home they all ended up in the girls’ room without really deciding to. Mina dropped onto her bed with a groan, burying her face in the pillow. Trey slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, head tipped back. Whereas Joanie stayed standing for a moment, arms folded, staring at the faint crack in the doorframe as if it were a warning she had left for herself.

She kept seeing Rowan’s face. A sickening thought kept creeping up on her. Is this how it had started with Caleb? Is this how he’d found himself with the Icelander? A missing kid with nowhere else to go? The idea made her stomach twist.

“Joanie,” Mina said quietly, lifting her head. “You’re doing that staring thing again.”

“What staring thing?” Joanie muttered.

Trey rubbed his eyes and looked up at her. “What is it?”

“I’m just tired,” Joanie lied, looking away as she tried to hide her guilt.

Trey looked at her for a moment, narrowing his eyes before finally letting out a long breath.

“We need help. Real help.” He groaned. “I don’t want to be sneaking around encampments until dawn again.”

The words hit her more than she expected as her mind took took her back to a few years ago. Back to the man who had once stood in their hallway in a long dark coat, tall and quiet.

Joanie straightened before she even realised she was moving. She crossed the room, pulled open her desk drawer, and began rummaging through the clutter of notebooks and old receipts. Her fingers brushed the edge of a card she had not touched in months and had even scoffed when she had been first given it.