"I'll tell you now Little Albert," the man coughed, his breathing heavy. Gurgling in the back of his throat. His entire body was failing him, anyone would have been able to notice. At this point the only remaining life on his face resided in his eyes. Somehow against all the odds they still held a spark, that pierced through the bleached white hospital room and somehow managed to inject a strange spark of optimism. The teenager sat beside the bed, holding the mans hand. Felt none of the optimism, his clothes were slightly tattered, and his shirt could likely do with a clean. Yet there was little the eighteen year old had in the way of capital, and what little he had was spent on rent.
Yet that wasn't going to stop him visting his Grandfather in his last days.
"Your father was always this man. Stubborn," he coughed again. Otto Lichtenstein, the man formerly known as the Lightkeeper. One of the original altered to follow in the footsteps of 'Vanguard' to try and change public perception about his fellow plague survivors. A beacon in the community, he had come to America at a time when Germans let alone 'Greys' as they were so often called weren't welcome. Yet he had changed perception about himself, and his kin. Calder had been a hub of change for altered, and Otto Lichtenstein was a large driving force behind that."-It's something that runs in the family."
"Well, he's made his choice and I've made mine." Otto chuckled at his choice of words, and Albert realised how it sounded the moment the words had left his lips. "It's not the same."
"It is exactly the same. It is about, legacy." Otto pointed to a variety of photographs on the table beside his bed. A variety of photos, some in colour and others in black and white. Some were just propped up against other objects, others were in frames. Some nice, some handmade and others in a state of disrepair. Some of the ones that were the most worn, seemed the most simple. Candid shots of friends and family enjoying themselves. "I wasn't the best father. I was too focused on my work, on what I had to be, what the job entailed. What my family should look like, it was all about curating an image," he sighed heavily. "I didn't realise my mistake, till too late in my life."
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.
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.
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.
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 van drew to a rolling stop two parks down from the front of Liu's Fix-It.
Qing paused a moment and tapped the steering wheel, before finally finishing with a sigh. The total mental transformation needed to go from the situation he'd just experienced to back to home life.
The bell jingled overhead as he opened the door, and the buzzer sounded as his foot crossed the threshold.
The redundancy; the daily reminder of the change since they lost his mother.
"Ba!" Qing called out, in case the two warnings weren't enough.
They were, but he was busy. There was a regular at the cash register.
"I'm sorry. I should probably take my television somewhere else. We're moving house..."
"You're moving?"
"Evening, Mrs Wing." Qing tried to gently make his fresh presence known. His father's greeting was a slight hand raise, as his eyes never left the customer.
"Yes, across town. Chinatown. But it's a long way for the television, and our contact information wouldn't be the same. I don't still have the stub and it would be tougher to make it here. We received an offer for the place and since our neighbours were killed, it doesn't seem as safe anymore."
"'s fine." Bo Wen replied. "Qing can bring television when done. What happened?"
"So you're just gonna volunteer my van up as your shop's delivery service, lă obà..?" Bo Wen made another swatting hand gesture. He hated when he'd call him that. Qing knew and did it on purpose. Made him sound old, and at the moment he was too interested in Mrs Wing's story for the distraction.
"It was a sword..." She replied. "Truly horrible. Mr Zheng was butchered, I heard it from Mister Zhou's young son, Kim, who just passed through the police academy. Otherwise we would have never known how."
"A sword?" Bo Wen was taken aback. "Who kills someone with a sword in these times?"
"In this crazy city, it probably doesn't narrow things down as much as you'd think..." Qing glibly added, whilst starting to close around his father for the night. He was busy with a customer, if he didn't make some effort to close the store, the lights could well remain on long into the night.
The buzzer sounded again as he passed the entrance to bring in the shopfront sign. Accompanied by the bell.
A thought drifted through his mind from earlier, as he carried the sign back through the door with another buzz and a ding-a-ling.
"So who are you selling to, Mrs Wing?"
"I don't know. I was just told there was an offer present that was very generous, when I asked how much, the agent told us the amount."
"Hmm." Qing mused. He had his suspicions.
"It makes sense, we've had other neighbours selling up and moving as well."
"And your place was down on Phillips..?"
"That's right."
West of Brubaker... Qing clocked. Everything tied together.
Bo Wen looked at his son with curiosity. He didn't socialise with customers as much as he did, but when he did, conversation was seldom as stilted. As interrogatory. Singular short questions and answers.
"Just moving to Chinatown?" Bo Wen asked hopefully.
"Yes, we won't be strangers. But I was worried since I don't still have the stub..."
"Oh don't worry! Mrs Wing is regular!" He said, beaming widely.
"...And with the size of the television to take it across town."
"We could make you up another stub right now if you feel so bad about it..."
He felt the old man's eyes on him. They bore a hole in him which emitted Qing's deep sigh.
"...and I could probably run your television down to your new address when he's done with it."
"He could easily leave for you or husband, or your delightful young daughter Lian." The old man's hospitable smile was wide.
"Hey-- wait..." Qing finally realised what the old man was doing. He thought he'd just been pushing him into customer service, but, now he realised the depths of his ulterior motives.
"Oh, no. Lian's gone away for college. She's actually been doing really well with her studies..."
Qing sees the old man's face fall and brightens. Yeah, take that you sneaky old...
"Must be holidays soon though. Nice to have her home then? When are they?"
Oh don't you even think about it, you diabolical old--
"Yes, school holidays are again in a month's time..."
"Well that's great! Television take about one month for fix! You rememb--"
"But Lian will be taking an educational sabbatical. Along with a few of her friends, they're actually going away to intern at a series of very successful businesses in their corporate offices."
"Well, you heard the old man. Television should be fixed in one month. Hope it looks great in your new place. I'll bring it right over when its done. In one month." I pat my crestfallen father on the back, with my widest genuine smile, and revel in the fact that I 'won one' for a change.
Farewells are made and as Mrs Wing walks out into the night, Bo Wen hits Qing.
<"What is wrong with you?"> The old man barks at the younger one in Wu.
<"Me? Nothing. Don't involve yourself."> Qing replied in kind.
<"Lian is a delightful young girl."> He continues. <"I don't understand what you could possibly have against--">
<"She's currently pursuing a masters in Business Administration, minoring in Finance and is about to intern at Fortune 500 companies where she's going to be looking to make the connections required for continuing her career after graduation. I own a van and fix people's pipes, wiring, air conditioning or dry wall.">
<"She doesn't seem the kind who would think of--">
<"If she's not then she's a fool, and I don't think of her a fool. But besides the fact we are in two different worlds, my greater point was more that neither of us have the time.">
<"I have my business... and when I don't have my business, I have CLOSING YOUR business..."> He slapped the sides of the register to prove his point.
<"Do not use me for your excuse! You know full we-- what is it?"> Bo Wen saw Qing curse and re-open the register.
<"Ah! I told Mrs Wing I'd write her up a new stub..."> He pulled slips from the register.
<"Why? I said she's a regular and that it's not necessary...">
<"Yes, I know that. I know I didn't have to, except I said that I'd actually do it. And what you always say about customer service...">
<"Always deliver what you said you were going to do. Our word is our promise, And our promise is our bond. On it!"> He scrawled down the name, and stopped by the TV on the shelf to jot down the job reference number, before running out the door. The bell and buzzer's warning in his wake.
Phillips Street... Phillips Street... He repeated in his head as he ran down the city streets past every major corner.
She can't have gotten too far... She's just a sweet old lad--
Suddenly a scream punctured the night.
Phillips Street... West of Brubaker... It was a sword... Mr Zheng was butchered...
"Mrs WIIING!" He called out into the night, breaking into a sprint.
Hitting Phillips he turned the corner and caught sight of the old woman standing before him, frozen in place, staring down a backalley.
"Mrs Wing? Are you alright? I found you... Just made you... another stub."
The older woman raised her hand in silence and point down the alleyway. Qing turned his head to follow her raising arm, and at the end saw a lone figure wearing a balaklava standing on a fire escape. Steel's glint winking a reflection of the moonlight.
"The Muramasa blade thirsts tonight..." He held it drawn, with two hands. More a baseball player's stance than a samurai. The burden of the weight clearly foreign to the wielder, despite how light a katana would usually be.
This was not a man used to brandishing a blade, so he leant into that which was more familiar.
The Muramasa blade.
Where the tales and legends of historic lore met briefly with those told by and of his own family.
The Masamune and Muramasa blades, of peace and war, from famed Japanese swordsmiths of the generation gap between the Kamakura period and the Muromachi period. Masamune's came to be known for peace, compassion and respectable authority, whilst Muramasa's were renowned for razor sharp blades which could cut through anything and everything without discernment.
His great grandmother had once seen one up close, and later heard of its relentless thirst for blood in the rape of Nanjing.
Muramasa and Masamune were both actual people, however, and had a legacy of actual swords left in their wake.
Not all were truly Yoto - cursed weapons - but from his own family's experience he didn't doubt that they were truly out there.
Nor that he was watching one wink back at him, in the amateur hands of this man who threatened to quench its thirst all the same.
With one hand he gently moved Mrs Wing beyond the alley and stepped forth into the breach.
Everything he had ever learned about how to fight against weapons sounded off like a klaxon between his ears. In this place he would need all of it in a fight which would see him given no quarter.
In this place he faced death.
Breathe in.
"It thirsts for YOU!" The masked figure jumped down from the fire escape onto a dumpster.
Breathe out.
F L O W S T A T E F L O W S T A T E
Qing advanced into the alleyway. Every natural instinct told him to stay between the swordsman and Mrs Wing, but he was determined to do the opposite. Qing made himself the bigger threat, his posture and his presence. Pushing beyond in the alley he would make the sword advance away from Mrs Wing, giving her the opportunity to flee. And for the swordsman to advance on Mrs Wing it would mean turning his back to Qing.
So he kept his distance and pushed further into the alley, maintaining a bagua circle. A stable core and hands pronounced, with fluid motion.
The man dropped from the dumpster and advanced on him.
He had less room to negotiate, worse for combat against a bladed weapon, and he could see Mrs Wing peeking around the corner at the entrance to the alley rather than taking the opportunity to run.
Great...
Below the swordsman's hip the scabbard dangled from a threaded cord. Nothing about him demonstrated any proficiency or respect for the weapon he brandished more like a bat than a blade.
It remained an extension of the man's body, but the body had an extra flawed 'joint'.
"I have already drawn the blade! It thirsts--!"
"You really... have no idea what you've got there, do you? No respect for what you're--"
"I have your end!!" He lunged forward and swung with both hands.
With a quick v-step, Qing effortlessly evaded the home run attempt. Gauging the distance and speed.
<"I don't even mean Muramasa..."> Qing spoke in extremely rudimentary Japanese.<"I mean a sword... in general... the weapon."> He switched to Mandarin.
The swordsman gave no inclination or suggestion that he understood or even cared what Qing was saying. Qing took note. He racked his brains trying to think of the Cantonese sentence he'd once heard his father use, before it came back to him.
<"Do you even know how to use that thing?"> He mimicked in Cantonese with an exaggerated twang.
Still no sign of recognition whatsoever.
"Hope you finished your last words, because the blade and I have heard enough!"
Another swing. This time larger, as he finished with one hand instead of two to extend his reach. Qing effortlessly kept his distance again, re-adjusting for the new range of the swing.
"I'll keep it to English for the ignorant. That sword costs a fortune and there's no way you know how to use it, let alone how to acquire one. How did you get it?"
"Since you're so interested, I'll let you see it up close!" Another v-step, allowing the blade to pass...
...and explodes through with a quick stride.
Qing put one hand on the wrist that held the blade and let the other drop by the man's hip. He grabbed the scabbard, and as the masked man panicked and whipped the blade back, Qing angled the saya between the pair, and the katana slid down it's perfectly crafted edge and sang as it drew first blood.
The masked man cursed as he cut himself. Qing responded with a clean sidekick to the solar plexus and the man flew back into bagged up garbage, struggling to regain his breath. The katana clattered to the bitumen.
Qing walked over to the weapon with the saya, never taking his eye from the masked man. He bent down to pick up the sword, and his head swirled. With sweet promises, and plans and visions of a future carved clean from it's means and stained with blood. He'd hold a force, a chi beyond reckoning, and anything he could want could be in reach. It wanted what he wanted. It knew him how nobody else did.
It understood the power and feeling of life's energies taken and put to use.
He looked at the man before them, in his bed of trash. What could this man really offer any kind of just world. He was about to take his life after all.
And he looked back down the alley. Mrs Wing peeked on still.
She was only a different shade of red.
"Mrs Wiiiing..! Run!" It took everything he had to release the blade. The katana clattered back to the ground.
He dropped to his hindquarters away from it as they both fell from each other. He felt hollow. And could only imagine how impossible it would have been if he'd actually drawn the blade from it's saya, rather than picked it up after it had freshly tasted blood.
He didn't have the energy to try again. And the masked man was now regaining his strength.
Qing turned and ran back down the alleyway. Never stopped looking behind them as he walked Mrs Wing home.
Qing walked back through the shop, as his father spoke into his phone.
"Thank you. Yes, he is here now. Thank you again." With a targeted aged finger he hung up the phone - new technology.
"That was--"
"Mrs Wing."
"Yes. She just want to know you got home safe. She said both ran into man with sword."
<"Not just a sword. It's a Muramasa blade."> Qing took things to Wu where his father would be more comfortable.
<"A Muramasa blade? Like Grandmother?">
<"Exactly. Like Great Grandma.">
<"Could it really--">
<"Oh. It was the real deal alright. Trust me on that. Cursed sword gets mighty talkative. And it's being wielded by someone local. American.">
<"You saw his face? You're sure? Mrs Wing said--"
<"He wore a mask. But he doesn't speak Japanese, Mandarin or Cantonese... so its a pretty good bet.">
<"You don't even speak Cantonese... Or Japanese."> The old man raised an eyebrow.
<"Do you even know how to use that thing?"> Qing mimicked once again, exaggerating the Cantonese twang even further. "I learned it by watching you, Dad!" He mimicked an old anti-drug PSA statement with an equal Americanised twang to his English.
<"And some of the Japanese they used to make us take in school stuck apparently. Congratulations, you didn't waste your money."> Returning to the good old Wu dialect.
<"A Muramasa blade... Do you think they know we're here?">
<"Who? The Japanese Imperial Army that Great Grandma was trying to hold out from in the Rape of Nanjing? I think they might be over it, Ba... Or the CCP who we fled from who have nothing whatsoever to do with an ancient Japanese sword? I'm pretty sure it's a coincedence.">
<"Still, it's worrying.">
<"It is. Someone or something has to stop the guy.>"
<"Well, it's a good thing we live in this city full of heroes then. Powerful people who are the best of American values!">
Qing pictured a flying man. Someone who could fire powerful beams from their eyes. A person who could lift a bus over their head picking up the sword. Looking out amongst the people. And what a 'hero' like that might see.
A different shade of red.
"Shit..." His English came back.
"What?"
I'm going to have to take care of this myself, aren't I?
"What?
"Oh, I've just got a phone call. That's all."
Qing pulled his phone out and answered it with the business name.
"Slow down, Superstar, no one's fighting for your plate here,"
Archie looked up from the table, only now realizing by Bosley's words just how fast he had been shovelling food into his mouth. The two eggs that had originally been on his plate were gone, with no trace of their existence save for the signature yellow stain left behind by a runny yolk. His bacon was completely devoured, with only a small piece of a sausage link still on his fork of the three that had once lay on the edge of the plate. A fragment of the once generous portion of home fries and a sliver of a once gigantic slice of ham remained in front of him, soon to be thoroughly swiped through the house-made ketchup before being eagerly devoured and washed down with his third cup of coffee and a tall glass of orange juice.
"I didn't know-" Archie started, stopping himself as he scooped another forkful of food into his mouth, chewing partially before continuing.
"I didn't know grease could taste this good," He finally answered, his cheek inflated with the partial mouthful of food he was still chewing on.
"It's called a hangover." Laughed Boz as he leaned back in his chair and slowly enjoyed the diner coffee. On the weekend, this place would have been bursting at the seams and lined out the doors, but mid-morning on a weekday, Boz and Archie had the place almost entirely to themselves save for several retired couples on the far side of the room. A countertop ran down the front of the kitchen, separating the cooks from the patrons and giving the waitresses a much-needed go-between while booths lined the exterior walls. Tables dotted the black and white tiled floor that sprawled across the entire establishment. Outside, an awning hung from the brick front of the baroque-style building, shielding several more tables that dotted the pavement outside.
"Takes me back, late night studying, place almost reminds me of Sandra's." Archie replied. Despite the more intentional styling and modern flourishes, even 'Wanda's' couldn't run from the undeniable truth that it was another of Calder City's greasy spoons.
"I don't think it's quite the institution that Sandra's is." Archie smiled, recalling the mentioned cram sessions and the bitter diner coffee. Hot water that had been allowed to cool before being heated up again, beans that were ground too fine, enabling the grinds to pass through the filter and pool in the bottom of each mug. The watered-down flavour from being quickly topped up to ensure each carafe went as far as possible.
Still, somehow the best cup of coffee he had ever had.
"How are you feeling about having your first day ever playing hooky?" Boz asked. Archie sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, clearly made uncomfortable by the question. It was only when the officers returned his wallet and keys that Archie remembered he had lost his phone in the scuffle the previous night, mid-phone call at that.
"Not thrilled that I have to buy a new phone, Harri's probably fuming, and the timing couldn't be worse, I have a lot of work to do on the Hawthorne case-" Archie began to ramble before Boz cut him off.
"Hey, don't spiral." Boz held up a hand, "Firstly, let Harri fume, we already established she doesn't deserve you, secondly, don't worry about the case. If I know you, you've already got a slam dunk; you need to be able to present it now."
Easy for you to say, Boz. People have always liked you.
"Uh, thanks, I guess..." Archie replied reluctantly while finishing another mug of coffee. "I, um, speaking of work, how are things going at the D.A.'s office these days anyway?"
"Oh, you know, city's getting worse. Recently, we've had a major spike in juvenile crime, which isn't particularly great news." Boz replied. "I've had three cases come across my desk where the juvenile in question was accused of parricide. That's three separate teens in little more than a week who have either killed both their parents or at least the one they're living with. It's dark stuff. Glad you didn't stick around the office, I'm not sure you're cut out for anything this heavy."
"It's kind of why I left in the first place," Archie nodded, "Much happier in copyright and patent law. Plus," He flashed a small smirk, "Pay is much better."
"Yeah, but your hours are somehow worse." Boz teased. "Seriously, other than our games of G&G, I never see you anymore. This has been a rare treat."
Yeah, because you all moved on and forgot about me after college.
"We grew up, Boz." Archie offered with a shrug.
"I don't buy that, and I don't buy this loner persona you're always putting on. You think the world is out to get you, but truth be told, you just always want the wrong people to like you."
"It's not like that with Harri-"
"I'm not just talking about Harri," Boz continued, "Look, Superstar, I know you want to be somebody, but until you realize that you already are, you're going to keep chasing the wrong goals until they take you to a point of no return. Now, I don't say this to lecture you, I say this because you and I are going to get dinner this Saturday." He smiled, holding up his phone before entering the date into his calendar.
"There, it's on the schedule, and I've sent you an invite for when you get yourself a phone again. I'm buying, and we're doing a proper celebration for Pendelton & Hawking's newest junior partner."
"You really don't have-" Archie interjected before Boz waved a hand dismissively.
"I know, but I want to, so don't give me any mock humility or the woe is me. We're going uptown, so dress appropriately, which means yes, you can wear a tie." Boz teased. "I'm buying, even on an A.D.A.'s salary, I can afford to treat a friend."
Archie had to stop himself from physically sighing in relief when Boz's phone rang, interrupting their conversation and saving him from further social obligations. Boz held up a finger, sliding his thumb across the touch screen before holding the phone up to his ear and turning away from Archie.
Turning his attention to what little food remained on his plate, Archie scarfed the rest of it down before trying to replay the events of the last twenty-four hours over in his head. It always came back to the book. He needed to find his way back to that store, and he needed to get another look at the grimoire. That Galloway guy was expecting him after all.
Though Archie wasn't entirely sure what he had meant by 'claim what is rightfully his.'
"Hey, look, Stud," Boz said, bringing Archie's attention back to the table, "I've got to run, office needs me. I'll pay the bill on my way out. There's no rush for you to leave yet; enjoy another coffee. Take whatever time you need to sober up." He added with a wink.
"But, I'll see you Saturday, don't worry, I'll send a town car to pick you up."
"I can drive," Archie protested.
"No, you can't," Boz smirked, "Because you're going to drink with me on Saturday." He called while heading out the door.
Slumping down into his chair, Archie fiddled with the last few home fries on his plate before looking at the clock across the diner.
That store had to be open by now, right? Does it matter? You have a standing invitation.
Three invitations in twenty-four hours, was this what it was like to be popular?
S T . D Y M P H N A ‘ S H O M E S T . D Y M P H N A ‘ S H O M E
F O R W A Y W A R D Y O U T H S F O R W A Y W A R D Y O U T H S
Joanie
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.
Sienna had always liked Fridays. They asked something of her, but never more than she had to give.
The beginning of the weekend had its own particular rhythm at the Velvet Room. Busier than Thursday, though not yet the controlled chaos of a Saturday - the kind of night where the bar filled steadily as the evening went on, the energy building in increments rather than arriving all at once at the door. She’d already made plenty of drinks - a pair of gin fizzes for the couple in the corner booth, something dark and complicated for a regular who liked to make her work for her tip, a round of beers for a group of University students who were definitely underage - when the man took the stool at the end of the bar.
She hadn't seen him come in. That, more than anything else, was what caught her attention. She prided herself on knowing the room the moment someone entered it - the particular quality of awareness she'd spent years cultivating, the kind that let her clock a stranger before they'd fully crossed the threshold. She didn't know how she'd missed him. He simply was, suddenly, sitting at the end of her bar with his hands folded in front of him and an expression of mild, patient interest, as though he'd been there for some time and was simply waiting for her to notice.
The brunette didn’t hesitate, or let her surprise show on her face, as she nimbly placed a cocktail napkin in front of him.
"What can I get you?"
"Whatever's good," he replied quickly. "Surprise me."
She poured him something without thinking too hard about it - a habit she'd built over years of reading what people actually wanted rather than what they asked for - and set it on the napkin. He thanked her with a small, unremarkable smile and took a slow sip, and she moved on to the next order, and that should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
Sienna felt him watching her work the bar for the better part of twenty minutes, not intrusively, not in any way she could have pointed to and called a problem. He was just present. Attentive. The particular quality of someone who had come in with a specific purpose and was taking his time getting to it.
She knew him, somehow. That was the thing that wouldn't settle.
Not his name - she was fairly certain she'd never heard his name. But something about the line of his jaw, the way he held his glass, the particular stillness of him when he wasn't actively doing anything at all. She had seen this man somewhere. Recently, she thought. The certainty of it sat in her chest like a word on the tip of her tongue, present and useless in equal measure.
"Busy night," he commented by way of invitation, glancing around the bar with the interest of someone trying to start a conversation rather than simply observing. "Nice place you’ve got here, Ms. Mercer."
"I try." Sienna stated, not disagreeing with him, but the way her name sounded coming from his lips felt wrong in a million different ways.
"More than try, I'd say." He turned his glass slowly on the bar, the golden overhead lighting catching the amber liquid inside. “It’s the one room in this city where nobody picks a fight. People keep their heads down.” His gaze shifted, examining the booths along the wall, “Good business, a place like this. Keeps things smooth for the people who need them smooth."
Sienna kept her expression exactly where it had been.
"I just pour drinks," she replied. "Whatever else happens in this room isn't really my concern."
"No?" He took a slow sip, unhurried, his eyes never quite leaving hers even as he drank. "Funny. I'd have said that's exactly your concern. A Gray, running the one place in Calder where nobody asks what anybody else is."
She didn't react but was instantly unsettled as he read her like a book. Two stools down, one of the university students laughed too loudly at something, and the ordinary noise of the room continued around them, oblivious. She was grateful for it without examining why.
"Plenty of people drink here," she countered. "Doesn't make their business mine."
"Mm." He set the glass down, "You know, people are disappearing lately. Grays, mostly. You hear about that?" He asked it lightly, conversationally, the way someone might mention the weather. "Not to mention, there’s a lot of new product on the street. Rumor has it, it’s moving through here."
Something in her chest went very still.
"I hear all kinds of things," she responded, reaching for a cloth she didn't need, giving the counter in front of him more attention than it currently required. "None of it's mine to repeat."
"That's interesting," he started, "because I heard something more specific than rumor. A casino, last night. A man with an English accent who walked away with rather a lot more than he sat down with. And a woman who helped him do it." He let his words settle, unhurried. "Quite the performance, from what I'm told."
She didn't let anything cross her face. It cost her more than usual.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No," he agreed, with the same small, unremarkable smile. "I wouldn't expect you to. But it does raise a question." He turned his glass once, considering it, before leaning forward slightly, lowering his voice - not enough to seem secretive, just enough that it was clearly meant for her alone. "Here you are, every night, telling yourself this place stays out of things. And yet there you were, last night, very much in business that is not yours." His eyes held hers, frank and unblinking. "Makes a person wonder how neutral this 'box' of yours really is. Or whether it's just neutral when it's convenient."
"You're bluffing," she whispered. "You're here to see if I'll flinch."
“You keep telling yourself that." He said it simply, without raising his voice, and something underneath the pleasant tone thinned just enough to show what was actually holding it together. "But you should know - that box only stays safe as long as everyone agrees it should. There are people watching this place who've started wondering whether it's still earning that agreement."
She didn't move.
"Is that supposed to scare me?"
"I’m just here to inform you." He turned the glass once more, unhurried. "This building. Your staff. The loft upstairs you think nobody's bothered to notice." He let that sit for exactly as long as it needed to. "None of it has to become anyone's problem. But the day you decide your conscience matters more than the arrangement, that changes. Quickly. And not in a way anyone would be able to undo for you."
The room around them carried on, warm and oblivious, someone calling her name for another round two stools down. She didn't look away from him.
"Get out of my bar," she stated, low and even, though her pulse had found a rhythm she didn't like at all.
"I will." He left a folded bill beside his untouched drink and rose from the stool without hurry. "Think about the casino, Ms. Mercer. About what happened to the people at that table who stopped being useful." He smiled, small and unremarkable, the same one he'd worn the entire conversation.
"Have a good night, now."
He turned and disappeared into the thickening Friday crowd, swallowed easily by the same noise and warmth that had let him sit there, in plain sight, for fifteen minutes nobody else had noticed at all. Sienna watched the door close behind him and stood very still for a moment, a glass in her hand that she had been polishing without registering it.
Marcus appeared at her elbow then, glancing toward the door.
"Friend of yours?"
"No." she snapped. She set the glass down, hand shaky, and reached for the next order.
Leaving the diner, Archie awkwardly tipped his head towards the hostess on his way out the door, nearly tripping over incoming patrons before stumbling out onto the busy streets of Pointe Bordeaux. His arms swayed from side to side as though he wasn't totally in control of his body, while the lanky, young man wandered aimlessly onto the sidewalk. It was only now that he remembered Boz had driven them here, and he wasn't in Milk Street anymore. His stomach was feeling more than a little heavy for a walk through Pointe Bordeaux, especially when he wasn't entirely sure where he was going.
A loud bark nearby caught Archie's attention, and he turned towards a familiar sight. Sitting on the edge of the sidewalk was the black dog that had followed him his entire life. Is this what the voice in his head had meant by familiar?
He really did need to start asking more questions.
The barghest barked again, ensuring it had Archie's full attention before standing and pointing toward Milk Street. Passerbys looked startled by the loud bark, with Archie realizing that the wolf-like dog had once again made itself visible. The sight of the large dog simultaneously drew attention to itself while off-putting anyone who got too close. Nearby bystanders were visibly shaken by the sight of a wolf-like beast in the middle of the busy sidewalk.
Couldn't have done that for me when I was younger, could you?
He inwardly cursed the beast before approaching it trepidatiously. He stretched out a hand, touching the soft fur for the first time in his life, before relaxing it and gently scratching the creature behind its tall, pointed ears.
"You know where to go, don't you, boy?" Archie paused, "At least, I think you're a boy, are you a boy beastie or a girl beastie?"
Its thick, shaggy coat obscured the most obvious tell while Archie stood, staring at the dog. In return, the canine stared back at him. Archie waited a few more minutes before letting out a long sigh. Shaking his head in disbelief at himself, he rubbed a hand along his forehead. It had been a very long twenty-four hours.
Was I seriously expecting you to respond?
As if hearing his thoughts, the black beast let out a sound suspiciously similar to laughter, causing Archie to hesitate before speaking again.
"Okay, what about a yes or no question. Can you bark for yes?"
Archie could have sworn the black dog raised an eyebrow at him for a second before a loud bark affirmed his request. He nodded slowly, still unaccustomed to actually remaining calm in the presence of the large animal, let alone civilly conversing with it.
"Are you a boy dog?"
There was silence for a moment before the Grim finally answered with a thunderous bark that made Archie feel like he had just jumped out of his skin. People around them scattered in every direction, cursing audibly, while several more remarked that the creature should be on a leash.
I'd like to see you try.
"Good boy, alright, I guess you need a name then." Archie replied, "Hmm, do I name you then?"
A drawn-out silence hung between the two before Archie finally took it as a negative response.
"So you have a name?"
A bark instantly came, the dog's tail wagging happily at the question.
"But you're not going to tell me, are you?"
Another immediate bark caused Archie to place the heel of either palm to his temples. He moved them in a circular motion while slowly exhaling, a groan of frustration escaping between his lips. Through his narrowed eyelids, he could have sworn the dog's tail wagged faster at the sound.
"Alright, well, this is fun. You are my familiar, right?"
Archie had expected the wolfdog to bark, but was met with silence instead. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, looking at the passing crowd while the black dog turned his head to its side, as if to exhibit confusion at Archie's own regarding the unexpected answer.
Just as Archie was about to open his mouth to ask another question, the Grim barked an affirmative towards him. Standing up and stretching before pouncing down onto its front legs, and wagging its tail wildly.
"Uh huh," Archie nodded slowly, "Cool, cool, cool. My familiar is a troll."
A rapid sequence of barks caused Archie to jump again. Regaining his composure, he turned in the direction that the Grim had originally pointed and began to walk, waving for the familiar to follow. Walking through the Sound, the bagherst eventually took the lead as they reached the familiar stress of the Milk Street district and meandered their way through several allies and side streets until Archie found himself standing in front of Galloway's Emporium of Antiquities.
A small bell rang from above the door as Archie entered the shop for the second time in the past twenty-four hours. Beside him, the Grim suddenly disappeared from view, leaving Archie alone in the dusty shop. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end, while goosebumps travelled down each of his arms. In the dark, he had barely noticed the objects that littered the shelves and displays of the shop, but now, in the light of the day, he was able to take in the eccentricities of the back alley shop truly.
Shelves of weathered books and journals dotted the back walls, though none bore the same metal edging as the tome which called to him. Whispers had begun to crawl into the crevices of his ears the moment he had opened the door, calling his name again while the light outside somehow seemed a bit dimmer within the four walls of the strange store. The temperature inside was cool, nearly sending a shiver down his already shaking spine.
In addition to the walls of books were strange vessels and equipment Archie had only seen in old movies featuring mad scientists. Various bottles of liquids, bones, and what he had to guess were other ingredients filled further displays. Swords, axes and all manner of archaic weaponry hung on racks, some having almost a glow about them while others were transcribed in symbols and languages Archie didn't recognize.
Mounted above the counter at the rear of the shop was a long, rod-like instrument. Nearly a foot in length, Archie peered closely, realizing it was ornately carved and decorated, likely made from bone or ivory. The etchings had been filled with a metal, likely silver and the end was capped with a pommel made of an amethyst or another violet-coloured gemstone. Unlike the other items around the shop, Archie noted, it wasn't displayed like something for sale, but rather like a trophy. Deliberately kept out of reach and inspection of patrons.
Circling back around, he found himself in the center aisle once more, still no sign of the shopkeeper as Archie continued to wander, his eyes scanning for any sign of the grimoire. Unable to spot the tome, he instead opted to walk towards a glass case atop a small pedestal in the middle of the aisle. Approaching it cautiously, Archie found himself intrigued by its contents. Inside the display lay an armoured gauntlet connected to an ornate vambrace which extended all the way to a couter. The complete piece would have covered the hand all the way to just above the elbow. A wave-like pattern was present throughout the entirety of the steel, while the intricate designs appeared to be made of inlaid gold and cobalt.
"The Arquus de Vice is a beautiful piece. The vambrace itself might even date all the way back to the eighth century."
For the third time that morning, Archie nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to see the man in the well-kept black suit, leaning on a cane behind him. How a man who required the use of a cane could walk silently enough to sneak up on Archie was a mystery for a time when Archie didn't feel the need to run into the bathroom and check his boxers for stains.
"Apologies, Mr. Hardwick, it was not my intention to startle you," The man said before extending his hand towards Archie.
Someone had died violently, that much Eve knew. She knew even in her dream and felt an interruption that sounded remarkably like a gunshot that had her wake to the fading scent of popcorn. This wasn’t like the day before when her mind was full of chaos; she woke calm from a nap this time and made her way through the dimly lit apartment with a yawn and a stretch. The declutter from the day before still held and the only real messes were coffee cups in the sink, and a half cup of pad kee mao she’d forgotten to refrigerate the night before that was still left on the bench. M̷y̷ ̷w̷i̷f̷e̷ ̷a̷l̷w̷a̷y̷s̷ ̷p̷r̷e̷f̷e̷r̷r̷e̷d̷ ̷a̷ ̷p̷a̷d̷ ̷t̷h̷a̷i̷.̷.̷.̷ With a roll of her eyes she dumped them into the garbage disposal and flicked the switch, the familiar grinding disappeared into the background as she wandered away.
She lit off a lamps berger in the lounge and the scent of crisp linen with sweet fig washed over the space. Music clicked on to a playlist where she had left off and she made her way back into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and found a container of tiramisu leftovers that she ate a spoonful of as her girl dinner. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚣𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎 The scent of burning popcorn came back. Or was it? Popcorn had a distinct noise. Popcorn went pop pop pop but this mysterious something was making an almighty grinding noise and she turned on her heel to see the garbage disposal smoking and spitting up food in a way that was far too reminiscent of her nephew. ᴳᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵘˢᵉᵇᵒˣ! “Fuckity fuck,” she said, lunging in panic for the wall switch and as she slapped it off the disposal quickly died with a groan. ןnɟǝɹɐɔ ǝq Smoke still curled up from the sink and so she reached for the fuse beneath the cabinet and fumbled it in her haste. The kitchen lights snapped out with a click.
She looked down at her hand and there was a ring missing from her finger. ”Shit…” she repeated; source of the sound confirmed. Silvio would be furious.
“Hey Siri…” she shouted out and her phone screen flashed. “Find me a repairman to fix a garbage disposal.” She paused and blinked. “NO AI,” she yelled, turning her head back, daring herself to look over the edge of the sink and back into the smoking mess, the rest of the kitchen lights flickering away too. 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 “Shit,” she sighed again, the adrenaline only then beginning to die down. “Shit…”
An elderly Asian man and his young adult son are talking, hunched over the counter of Liu’s Fix-It.
“What?”
The younger man paused, deep in his own mind.
“What?”
He snapped back to reality, and welcomed the distraction of the vibration on his hip and its pre-packaged excuse to distract from his previous thoughts.
“Oh, I’ve just got a phone call. That’s all.”
Qing pulled out his phone and put it to his ear.
“Ace of Trades. Qing Yuan Liu speaking.” He introduced himself and waited on the caller.
Ace of Trades? ᵂʰᵃᵗ ᵃ ˢᵗᵘᵖⁱᵈ ⁿᵃᵐᵉ “Uhh, hi Qing,” Eve answered, in that awkward way that just tended to happen when calling for services. Dancing around on the anxiety of knowing and not knowing just how polite to be, what she'd have to say, what she'd have to ask. “Eve,” she continued, stepping closer to the sink again as the lights flickered above still. “Do you… do you fix, um.” Shit. The name of the appliance had slipped her mind and from her side of the phone she wagged her finger in a circle close to her head trying to summon it. ʎǝuoɥ 'ןɐsodsıp ǝƃɐqɹɐƃ ǝɥʇ s,ʇı “Garbage disposals?” She found it. “Yeah, a garbage disposal?” She placed her hand on the counter. “Mine is completely fucked–” Shit, again. She was sure people shouldn't curse down the line at service workers.
Oh what the hell did it matter anyway. “Totally fucked. It's blown the lights so I'd like it fixed today, if you have the time. If you can.”
“Garbage disposals..?” Qing’s brow furrowed for a second. “What, like one of those sink-installed things that were all the rage after the moon landing?”
The older Asian man’s face lit up next to him. He mouthed ‘Really?’ to him and was met with emphatic nods, before rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, we have… someone here… who’d be very enthusiastic about taking a look at fixing that. Sounds like a two person job anyway, I’ll look at your wiring whilst he checks the actual unit. It shouldn’t be able to blow your lights just from giving out.”
“I’ll tell you what, you’re going to be paying for the two of us, but I’ll knock out the after-hours rates. Sound fair?”
Eve’s eyes narrowed. Moon landing? ᵂʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵍᵘʸˢ ᵈᵉᵃˡ? ᴴᵉ ᵃ ᶜᵒᵐᵉᵈⁱᵃⁿ? As if she’d built the apartment and would know. ˙ʇɹoddɐɹ ƃuıʞɐɯ ʇsnɾ s,ǝɥ Still, he’d agreed to help and as she looked back across at the kitchen again, it was something she needed. Desperately, lest Silvio find out and send his own help alongside a lecture. ”Yeah… It’s a sink installed thing alright, I think… I might have dropped something I shouldn’t have into its teeth.” She paused, looking down at her empty finger again. ”Yeah. That sounds fair. I’ll text you the address.” If he asked what happened to the lights, she decided that she would lie about having panic punched the wall switch.
And so Eve waited, sitting in her armchair with her eyes closed. Her mind having mapped out the city so she could imagine a handyman’s truck making its way through the traffic and through the various winding grids and lines to make it to her apartment that was neither in Midtown or the Lantern District, but right on the edge of both. Was it really a two person job, she wondered, or was this a classic rip off situation? ᴰᵉᶠⁱⁿⁱᵗᵉˡʸ ᵃ ʳⁱᵖ ᵒᶠᶠ! ᵀᵃᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵃᵈᵛᵃⁿᵗᵃᵍᵉ ᵒᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ᵇᵉⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ʷᵒᵐᵃⁿ! The thought of that annoyed her and to get over the self-inflicted annoyance she tried to imagine what they’d look like. Perhaps like Mario and Luigi in colour contrasting outfits; with a side of tradesmans crack to display from out of their oversized overalls, slick with grease and paint and various marks.
She didn’t have to think for too long; a knock at the door and she was up to greet them, trying to let the humorous thought escape and be quashed so she could appear at least half serious when she said–
”Hello!”
“I’m Qing Yuan. We spoke on the phone. That’s my father, Bo Wen. He doesn’t speak English.” Qing shot the older man a look. Apparently there had been some kind of conversation in the car prior.
“Hello!” The older man immediately breached whatever agreement they had, with a gleeful grin and a wave.
“Not a word. His mind… truly an enigma.” He ignored the older man. “Just through to the kitchen, right?”
A string of Chinese poured out of the older man.
“Just stop. Do you need me to get the unit out too, or do you think you can handle it, lă obà?”
“Don’t call me that in front of pretty young woman!”
“Oh yeah, you’re a spring chicken. Be professional for five minutes.”
“He’s actually a good boy!” The older man turned and offered Eve a toothy grin.
“Nobody understands you! And they wouldn’t care if they could!” The younger man hollered from elsewhere in the depths of the house, looking for the fuse box.
Another string of Chinese, possibly expletives, and the older man got to work on the kitchen sink. In mere moments he was looking at the garbage disposal unit and was holding it up before the flickering lights. Inquisitive eyes paired with the everpresent smile.
They were not Mario and Luigi, and there was no kind of Italian greeting as Qing immediately had made his way through the space, and Eve hadn’t had a chance to get too good of a look at him despite a sense… Before Bo Wen was flashing her a wide smile as punctuation to a good natured comment which she would happily take. ʸᵒᵘ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶠˡᵃᵗᵗᵉʳʸ... She was hardly able to get a word in between their volleys of familial banter. She blinked, and, leaving Bo Wen to the kitchen, found herself more concerned with Qing’s instant exploration. ”Can I help you with finding something? Want some coffee? Do you drink coffee?” she asked aloud from the centre of the lounge space.
Bo Wen gave a pleased sound of gratitude at the offer from the kitchen, before Qing quickly kept things strictly business.
“We drink tea.” He flatly replied. And then turned, briefly startling himself at how close Eve had been following him through her house. It made sense, he didn’t really announce his own intentions before he disappeared.
“Fusebox… fusebox… fusebox…” He gave voice to his intent, more for her benefit than his own.
“You never drink my tea!” The older man called from the kitchen.
Qing gave the young woman a polite, forced, cordial smile - all he had to offer.
“We drink tea.” He flatly repeated. “Fusebox has to be around here somewhere...”
He stepped back out into the main hallway and found a disguised panel in a wall near the heater. He opened it up and emitted a whistle descending in pitch, before making the sound of an explosion with his mouth.
<“How goes the actual garbage disposal unit, Spring Chicken? Because I’m looking at a fusebox that might be older than you! Not a circuit breaker in sight! I thought ‘fusebox’ was just one of those old terms with historic roots! There’s damned wires in there! I’m less looking for one single problem, and more wondering where the rats are on treadmills actually powering this house!”> He called through the house in Wu.
<“She’s a nice lady. And for as old a unit, it’s actually in pretty good shape. I wouldn’t be surprised if the problem was in the wiring from the sound of things.”> Bo Wen returned.
“Ah… she said something fell in there too. So look for that!” He called back in English.
“What exactly was it that fell in the garbage disposal?” He asked Eve.
ᴰᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵏ ᵗʰᵉʸ'ʳᵉ ᵗᵃˡᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉˢˢ ⁱⁿ ʰᵉʳᵉ?. Eve was quiet as the voices in her head chattered and hummed away in the distance, and the voices in her space – the real, very much in front of her voices, spoke and yelled back and forth at each other. Her head tilted as she watched what was happening, lingering on Qing’s hands as he ran them over the fusebox. It took her a moment to register back into his question. ”Right,” she affirmed, and brought her own hands together. ”I was wearing a ring, I usually wear it. Always wear it,” she continued.
“A ring?” He confirmed with Eve, before his grin broadened across his face.
<“It was an engagement ring. So drop the heart eyes, matchmaker!”> He called back through to the kitchen in Wu. “So just find the ring and then make sure the thing’s working again!” He tried to put Eve’s mind at ease with English.
“Thanks. Hopefully shouldn’t take us…” He furrowed his brow at what he was looking at in the fusebox and trailed off.
ᴰᵉᶠⁱⁿⁱᵗᵉˡʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉˢˢ. Shut the fuck up, Jason. ”It’s a ring, yes,” she began, stepping closer to Qing to look at whatever he was looking at, whatever made his brow move that way. Hell if she knew what she was looking at. ”But it also looks like a nail. Like a wrapped nail. A toolbox nail right? Fashion thing.” She side eyed him then as she explained. It had been a ridiculously expensive thing and she could only imagine how it would look now having been minced through the disposal. ”Why are you frowning at this?” she asked, changing the subject, keen for him to take over again.
“Because this is a Lovecraftian horror beyond all human understanding. I think I just saw a tentacle in there, and it called out to me in ancient languages, heretofore unheard, trying to take me into its thrall…”
He swatted at the box with a rubber glove. A loose wire fell to the floor, he picked it up and showed her the burnt marks where it had crossed old fuses.
“...Fortunately that ancient language wasn’t Chinese… so I think we might be all good here.”
Eve smirked at that and took the wire in between her own fingers and looked at it up close. ”Huh… So that’s it? That's all?” All that trouble just for that, she bit her lip and sighed. ”Well, if Lovecraft was going to set up his shop anywhere in this damn City, it would most certainly be right damn here.” She handed it back to him, not sure what else to do with it and then she looked at him proper, up and down and carefully too. ”Thanks.” Something, something, something…
“Well…not just that. It probably blew a fuse or two as well. We should have spares… from the Kennedy Administration… in the van. Gimme a few minutes, I’ll replace them.”
Just then his father walked in, holding something between his fingers.
“Here. I found the… <engagement> ring as well.” Switching only to Wu for the quoted lie. Scowling at his son.
Qing laughed and headed out the front door for the van.
Eve took the ring back, watching Qing leave with a quirked brow. The jewellery looked less like a Cartier now and much more like an actual nail and then she understood exactly what Silvio had meant when he had rolled his eyes at it in the first place, and his reason for practically having a heart attack at the price tag. ”Thanks again,” she offered to Bo Wen, smiling as she let the chewed up piece of jewellery fall into her pocket and away from being looked at any further. ”Is the sink fixed?” she asked, stepping away from the fusebox and back into her kitchen to take a look.
“Nothing wrong!” He replied happily in broken English.
Eve flicked the switch and nothing happened. Something in the kitchen still smelled vaguely like burnt toast. She flicked it off again.
Qing hollered from the entry again. “Just… wait. Nothing’s going to work til I replace the fuses… there’s no power going through there. Just– about… there! Alright! Try it now!”
The garbage disposal whirred into life. Still in relative darkness.
Qing walked into the kitchen. “Your bulbs couldn’t take the extra juice, but the disposal could still go a little. It just doesn’t like it and… made that smell. Now I’ll level with you, we could replace the bulbs too. I have some in the truck, but we’ll charge more than a store will, anyone in our line of business would. Mark up to ensure covering costs.”
“And while we’re levelling… a lot of tradesmen would try and use that stray wire to get you over a barrel and strongarm you to pay for a fuse-to-breaker conversion. That’ll set you back thousands of dollars. I’m not gonna do that. I don’t know your full situation here… maybe you’re rent-controlled, maybe you bought it cheap recently and money’s tight. But that does need to happen eventually. I’m gonna say it’s not a significant enough risk… you don’t have pennies wired in there, and I’ll plead ignorance on knowing your own specific local building codes. But when things aren’t tight… It's something that should be done. Maybe talk with family or your landlord or something. I don’t know.”
“Because while I do own the business… That business doesn’t seem to ever be in the business of making money…” He muttered glibly under his breath as he looked to wrangle his father. “Ba! You done?”
As she listened to Qing, Jason piped up again; some crude comment about barrels and being over them but he was quieter now, Eve was focused on Qing, on more than him – his energy, something that had made her feel not quite so enamoured as interested. ”Qing,” she said, latching on to what he had muttered, and his offers, and the way he danced around the subject of cash like he was expecting rejection. ”Don’t undersell yourself for me. I have money, I can make the money.”
There was a broken three thousand dollar ring sitting idly in her pocket and her adoptive father was a mafia boss, but, he didn’t need to know that. ”I’m a freelance… Freelancer… Dancer.” ᴳʳᵉᵃᵗ ⁿᵒʷ ʰᵉ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵏˢ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ᵃ ˢᵗʳⁱᵖᵖᵉʳ, ⁱᵈⁱᵒᵗ. She sighed and gave him a smile. ”If you tell me it’s thousands, it’s thousands. Just, as long as you know how to fix it. You know how to fix it, right? Her eyes narrowed again as she tried to figure out what it was, why his aura was different.
“What, like that Netflix documentary with the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders? You working over with the Canaries?”
Now it was Qing’s turn to run an eye over Eve proper, up and down as if to verify the veracity of her story. His eyes briefly met Bo Wen’s who was standing opposite, and his big grinning face, before Qing realised what he was doing and stared at the floor. The ceiling. Anywhere else.
“Look, I’m not underselling myself. What I did. It fixed your problem. It’ll work. If you’re not bothered I can change the bulbs for you as well. It’s more thousands of dollars for… I dunno… Peace of Mind. And because eventually you SHOULD have a breaker conversion, because it's safer and stuff like today can’t happen. I just know it’s a lot of money to drop on one person late at night when they feel pressure. You decide you want to, that’s fine, you’ve got my details. I am qualified to do it. You’ve gotta pay for an inspection as well at the end. I just don’t want you making decisions like that thinking you have to immediately… and I also don’t really want to have to do a fuse-to-breaker conversion at this time of night. I’m going to have a hard enough time getting to sleep after gazing into the abyss of that horror fusebox already.”
She gave it a moment. For him to catch his breath, de-fluster, and for her own grin to subside. She’d been glancing between him and Bo Wen as he’d spoken. ”Not the Canaries– ballet.” To the credit of her story, she pointed to a photo of her on a shelf in a ballerina’s get up, tutu and all in arabesque. It may have been four years old and three years since she’d been to a class, but he didn’t need to know that and to save the lie looping any further she changed the subject. ”But yes, fine, I’ll sleep on it. It’s not like I want to strong-arm you over a barrel into fixing it right now,” maybe I do. Her chin tilted just enough to be mischievous and she kept her eyes fixed to his. ”I’ve got other things to do tonight anyway.”
It wasn’t until after they’d left and the room held their absence that she pieced it together. She knew there had been something unfamiliarly familiar with him, and it hit her. A sliver of a death thread had been clinging to Qing Yuan, swimming with something else.
Billy Albion had never been particularly brave. People mistook desperation for courage all the time. They weren’t the same thing. Brave people had choices. Billy had debts.
The apartment around him looked as though somebody had tried very hard to forget it existed. Water stains spread across the ceiling. A single lamp buzzed weakly in one corner. Outside, Calder City’s rain drummed steadily against the cracked window. He sat alone on the edge of a threadbare mattress, turning the small glass vial over between trembling fingers.
The orange liquid caught the light. Beautiful. Wrong. Billy swallowed. He didn’t want to scare or hurt anyone. He just wanted Ronnie Jacobs to stop breaking his nose every Friday outside the bookmakers. He wanted his mom to stop pretending that everything was fine after his father got shot in Hudson.
He wanted her to stop bringing home men that tried to fill that void by kicking the shit out of both of them. He just wanted to walk home without looking over his shoulder every thirty seconds.
He wanted—He laughed bitterly. Wanted. As though wanting had ever changed anything.
That’s what had brought him to El Jefe in the first place. His wanting. Billy thought being part of his crew would be temporary, thought it would be an easy bit of money. He didn’t expect this. His hand closed around the vial. When Tae had used it, the effects were instant. They were flashy and cool, like something out of a comic book.
He glanced at his phone and the picture of the man on there. The man from the casino. The one that El Jefe wanted him to stop.
“Just once. Just for this”
The words sounded pathetic spoken aloud. He uncorked it. The smell surprised him because they were not chemical. Instead it smelled Earthy, like rain and fresh cut grass. The scent of damp woodland after a storm. For one impossible moment he was seven years old again, running through the woods with his grandfather, laughing because he’d found deer tracks in the mud.
He smiled and then drank.
Nothing happened.
Billy frowned. “…that’s it?”
The warmth arrived a heartbeat later. It spread through his chest first. Pleasant and comforting, like a hot cup of cocoa or like standing a little too close to a fire. Then hotter. Much hotter. His smile disappeared.
“Oh…”
The vial slipped from suddenly numb fingers. Glass shattered and the warmth soon became pain. Billy doubled over as something beneath his ribs shifted violently. A crack echoed through the apartment. His own. His spine arched backwards. Another crack. Then another.
“No…”
His voice broke halfway through the word. Not emotionally. Physically. His jaw spasmed. Teeth grinding so hard he felt two molars split. His heartbeat accelerated becoming far too fast, was if it was trying to escape his chest. His skin rippled as muscles swelled beneath it, not growing larger so much as rearranging themselves. His shoulders lurched forward with a sickening pop. His arms lengthened. Fingers clawed at the floorboards as his nails thickened into black, blunt hooks.
Billy screamed.
The sound emerged wrong. Too deep. Layered beneath itself. Like another voice had tried speaking at the same time. His knees slammed into the floor. Then bent. Not forwards. Backwards. Bone pressed against skin until flesh split. Blood soaked into the threadbare carpet. He watched in horror as his own legs reformed beneath him, tendons tightening, joints twisting into an anatomy no human body had ever possessed.
“I don’t want—”
His throat convulsed. The sentence dissolved into an animal cry that shook dust from the ceiling. Pressure exploded inside his skull. Billy clutched his head. Something sharp pushed outward beneath the skin of his forehead. Once. Twice. The skin tore. Bone emerged. Branching. Growing. Antlers. Not smooth, or elegant. They were jagged ivory, bursting through flesh in violent, uneven forks.
Blood streamed down his face. His vision blurred and then just as quickly sharpened. Too much. He could suddenly see every crack in the opposite wall. Every raindrop racing down the window. Every insect crawling beneath the skirting board. The apartment became unbearable. Every smell intensified. Mould. Dust. Old cooking oil. His own blood. Someone smoking three floors below. A leaking gas pipe somewhere across the street.
Billy stumbled backwards, crashing into the wall. The impact left a crater. He barely noticed. His breathing came in frantic bursts. No. Not breathing. Scenting. His pupils stretched unnaturally until the world widened around him.
Run. The instinct arrived with terrifying clarity. Run. Nobody can corner you if they can’t catch you. Nobody can hurt you if they never reach you. Run. Billy tried to say his own name. What emerged was a guttural bellow that rattled every window in the building. Somewhere downstairs a neighbour shouted. Another door opened. Footsteps filled the air, coming closer.
Billy panicked. His body moved before thought. One bound carried him the length of the apartment. Another sent him through the window. Glass exploded into the night. For one impossible second the creature hung silhouetted against Calder’s rain-swept skyline.
Tall. Lean. Sinewy. Antlers crowned with blood. Long, digitigrade legs absorbing the impact as it landed four storeys below without slowing. Then it ran. Not like a man.Not like a wolf. Not like anything nature had ever intended.
It flowed through alleyways in impossible bursts of speed, ricocheting from walls, clearing fences without effort, vanishing into the darkness with the terrified cries of the city echoing behind it.
Far above, unnoticed in the shattered apartment, Billy Albion’s phone vibrated one final time.
A single unread message.
EL JEFE Walk your path, hijo. The screen went dark.
Last night was a good night to fix a bad day. Like what Milda said, the Sunset Blues was worth it. Good food, good music, and a good time all around. Like it was the world's way to show him a good time after dealing with Connor's shockwave. Luckily, they got there early before it got crowded, and now, after hearing the blues for the first time. Yulian can say he likes it, music that speaks to the soul and makes you feel it. A great anniversary last night, and Yulian is sure to go back there sometime with Milda.
Now, the next day, Yulian was taking it easy since he was still sore after what happened at the gym. More so since Damien is giving him a few days off to recover. A nice gesture and one that Yulian appreciates.
So, as he relaxed in his apartment, sitting comfortably on his green cloth couch. Just watching tv and flipping through the channels as there was nothing he liked at the moment. Then he reached the news, and they were still doing their weekly remembrance of The Mountain. "The Mountain," Yulian spoke in a semi emotionless tone. Not one of malice or distrust but one of jadedness. One hero dies, and the whole city is crying about it. It was true that the Mountain was a famous and charitable hero in Calder City, and Yulian understands that. He knows that his boss does donate and supported the Mountain's efforts. A good person.
It is just back home in Russia, or at least in Veliky Novgorod. They did not have heroes or vigilantes there. Just the cops and the mafia, and while there were a few Grays in the city. They minded their business for the most part. Lest they deal with him and his family.
An unpleasant thought to bear, but in his youth. Yulian had heard of the heroes of Russia. The Atomic Witch, the Manbear and the Red Son, to name a few. For a time, he did believe in heroes, but that faith did not last long under his father's care. He still remembers how, sometimes, he would pray and hope for someone to save him and break his father's hold over him. But no one came to his rescue ever, and as the years passed under his father's thumb. Yulian was close to giving up hope. Then his father messed up and got himself killed, and that was his ticket to freedom. For him and Milda. Yulian found an out, no hero saved him, and why would they? He was in the mafia, the son of a mob boss and a killer, so who would save someone like that? Not a hero, as Yulian would imagine.
Yulian still does not know what became of his older brother, and he does not care. That part of his life was over, and Yulian will live happily if he does not see his brother again.
But as Yulian continued to watch the broadcast, and knowing how this city weeps for its greatest hero. The world moves on, and so do people. It is just how the world works. Then, as he forced this uncomfortable thought train about his past out of his head. He got a bit hungry and got up to see what was left in the fridge. walking to the other side of the room. Past, the wooden table he eats at. As he opened the fridge and was greeted by cold air and the sight of its contents.
There was food in there, yeah, some bread, sandwich meat and cheese, a few microwave meals, milk, and what looked like a half empty egg carton. Yulian could make something out of what was in the fridge, but he felt like nothing was being presented to him. So he figured that he would go out to eat somewhere and maybe get some groceries while he was out and about.
So Yulian, without another thought. Closed the fridge, turned off the tv, collected his things, and went out the door into the city. Hoping that he has no more surprises this week.
The Velvet Room at night. Home to the who’s who of the Lantern District and a few more, usually. All whipped up like frosting into a nice frenzy and those who had more than a dime rattling in a purse could choose a song, and as Eve strode in, her pick for the ambiance was Depeche Mode. Brooding, dark, and a thrumming bass that she felt through the floor as it kicked in. A pair of practical, split toe flats for the evening – after having lost a Versace already this week, she wasn’t in the mood for risk and her plans for further recklessness later needed something for a getaway.
The skin she had on display shimmered under the atmospheric lighting; a buzzy red that contrasted the darker corners and reflected back from the mirrors set about the place. Bad decisions were born here.
She shoved shoulders with a man on his way out who seemed satisfied with himself over something; a smugness in his eyes and the slightest curling against the corners of his mouth. Eve worked her way through his trail to find her way to an empty chair that still held the warmth of his time sat in it. Her eyes tracked the place for anyone of interest, anyone who might help her to shed some energy, anyone who might give her some attention for a song or two on the dancefloor, or failing that, something that would take her mind elsewhere. Her mind wandered with distraction to earlier in the day and skimmed over everyone else and she settled on reading the menu instead. The owner was around, as she often was, and Eve knew very little about her but while she waited for the woman to take her order she took a careful and measured look at her face; heart-shaped and soft, normally her expression was broad and bright, sexy eyes and a smile that pulled more definition to her cheekbones when she wore it, and she often did, and even though tonight it was less so, she was still offensively hot. Had something pissed her off?
“Don’t suppose you’d make me a Sazerac? Feel like getting into all kinds of shit tonight.” ᴬᵇˢⁱⁿᵗʰᵉ? ᴿᵉᵃˡˡʸ?
Sienna had been midway through straightening the bottles along the back shelf so their labels were facing outward when someone dropped into the seat that had only just gone cold - and for half a second, before her face caught up with the rest of her, she felt something close to relief at the interruption. Anything that wasn’t replaying the last conversation she’d had in this exact spot.
She knew her face - not just from the bar, but from the particular currency of names and lineages that moved through rooms like hers whether or not their owners ever sat at the counter. Eve Raciti-Seeley. Silvio’s girl - the kind of name that came with its own weather system, the sort of family connection that made people in certain rooms straighten their posture without quite knowing why.
The brunette had served her before, many times actually, but she couldn’t remember actually having a conversation with her that wasn’t surface level. Maybe, this opening was meant to be, in a way.
“A Sazerac,” she repeated, already reaching for the whiskey in the well. “I can do that.”
Sienna worked with the same precision she brought to everything, the faint, familiar ritual of it a welcome distraction from what had just occurred. She built the drink properly - the absinthe rinse, the bitters, the long twist of lemon peel expressed over the glass rather than dropped in - and set it down with the kind of care that wasn’t strictly necessary but had become a habit regardless.
“Rough night?” she asked, mostly to redirect the conversation away from her own face rather than out of any real need to know. “If you’re feeling like finding trouble, this is usually the place for it.”
“I don’t need to feel like it,” Eve answered, taking the glass into her hand and taking a sip to taste first. “Finds me or I find it usually.” The flavour of the anise bloomed over her tongue and she took another sip. She smiled a little. “Besides, the right kind of trouble in the right amount… Well doesn’t that just make things more fun? So no, not a rough night.” ןnɟǝɹɐɔ ǝq 'ʞuıɹp ƃuoɹʇs ɐ s,ʇɐɥꓕShe let the glass sit on the bar in front of her and crossed one leg over the other to take a glance out across the room; bodies becoming darker under the red lighting, their contrast playing in the spaces until they were a blur together and then she returned her gaze to Sienna with a glint of mischief in her eyes. Sienna didn’t want to talk about it, that was clear.
“Who do you think out there will find the most trouble tonight?” Eve smirked. “My money is on the specsy gent at the corner table…” ʸᵒᵘ'ᵈ ᵍᵒ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ⁿᵉʳᵈ?
Sienna followed Eve’s gaze out across the room, genuinely considering the question - a welcome one, for a change. The gentleman with the glasses had potential, she’d give Eve that. There was something in the way he kept checking his phone and then deliberately not checking it that suggested a man working up the nerve to do something he hadn’t fully thought through.
But she’d been watching this room for years. She had her own candidates.
“Tempting,” she said, “but no.” She nodded subtly toward a booth near the far wall, where a woman in green was leaning in just a fraction too close to a man who was definitely not the date she’d arrived with. “Her. She’s been making eyes at someone else’s table for twenty minutes, and her actual date just ordered her a second drink without asking if she wanted one. That’s not going to end quietly.” She picked up a cloth, more out of habit than necessity, and let herself enjoy the small, simple pleasure of being right about something for once tonight.
“Care to make it interesting?” she said, setting the cloth aside. “Whoever’s pick causes the first scene buys the next round.”
“I’ll take that bet…” Eve answered with a smirk, half-inclined to cheat her way to the win by nudging her guy a way forward. She was feeling in good spirits with her spirits and spirit so something in good faith would be fine for once. “Disappointed it won’t be me making the scene myself, but I’ll respect your patrons for tonight.” She watched Mr Specs and tilted her head just so, her mind wandering to wonder many things about him; what would happen if she airdropped him a selfie? – would he find her attractive? Was Sienna more his type? ᵀʰᵃᵗ ⁿᵉʳᵈ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵍᵒ ᶠᵒʳ ᵉⁱᵗʰᵉʳ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵒᶠ ʸᵒᵘ. She looked back at Sienna then while in her thought trail. She was beautiful in a carefree, could, and would, kick your ass way. ᴵ'ᵈ ʰᵃᵖᵖⁱˡʸ ˡᵉᵗ ʰᵉʳ ᵏⁱᶜᵏ ᵐʸ ᵃˢˢ. She was self-assured; a woman with her own successful business and the freedom that it allowed her and she wore it well.
Airdropping a snap would be exactly the kind of cheating she was looking to avoid, fun as it would be. She sipped from her drink instead, letting the peel soak into the liquid and get perfumed by it in the glass. “Do you think he’s hot?” ᵀʰᵉ ᵍᵘʸ ˡᵒᵒᵏˢ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵃ ⁿᵃʳᶜ! She asked Sienna. “Wait, no,” she continued, raising a finger to the air. “Do you think he’s hotter with or without his glasses?”
Sienna considered the question with far more seriousness than it deserved, which felt, in its own way, like a small kindness she was doing herself. She studied the man properly now rather than the half-glance she'd given him earlier, the dark curl of his hair and tanned skin.
“I’d say without,” She replied decisively, tilting her head as she continued to inspect his features. “He has a nice face but his frames are definitely a little too thick.”
She let her gaze drift back toward him, considering, and then - almost without deciding to - let the smallest, gentlest tug settle over the bridge of his nose. His glasses slid forward and dropped neatly into the table. He blinked, startled, before sliding them back into place with the particular fluster of a man who had no idea why gravity had just taken a sudden interest in his evening. The brunette smirked, turning her attention back to Eve, acting as if it was kismet.
“I change my mind. I like him better with them on.”
Eve’s head had tilted slowly as the scene unfolded and she took him all in too. Humming in agreement with Sienna. ”He’s so serious and surly with them on. I like it,” she bit her lip for a brief second before chuckling. She hadn’t noticed at all the push and pull that had come from Sienna’s hand.
She had wanted to say something else, a tidbit about her day – an unusual overshare, but her attention snapped to the woman who had been Sienna’s mark, at a very distinct eye roll as she took the drink from her date. ”Ooooh…” she began. ”Your girl is on the move.” She wished there was some popcorn. Now seemed like quite the time for popcorn. ”You might be a winner tonight…”
The brunette smirked, satisfied with her prospect, reinforcing her innate ability to read a room. The couple sitting next to Eve departed, leaving her to wipe off their section of the bar with her cloth, working in small, rhythmic circles. She silently hoped the seats would remain empty for just a moment, a brief reprieve.
“So, what brings you to my part of town this evening?” She asked, making small talk. “I highly doubt it’s to place bets and people watch.”
”Weird night, met a weird guy,” she answered with an honest nonchalance. ”And I wanted to take the edge off before tonight, maybe dance, maybe pocket something stronger.” Eve knew that Sienna wasn’t the type to judge, she’d seen it all, and the playful glint in Eve’s eye would be nothing to her. ”Dutch courage for later, even.” She gave a slight smile. ”Bets and people watching are a bonus.”
Sienna's hands stilled on the cloth for half a second before she caught herself and kept moving.
"Weird guy," she repeated, with a small, dry laugh that came out more honest than she intended. "Funny. I think I might have had one of those myself tonight." She didn't elaborate; some things were easier left as a passing comment than an actual conversation, and tonight had given her quite enough of the latter already.
"Yours sounds like it might've been the better story," she replied instead, reaching for the bottle to top off a glass nobody had asked her to. "Mine mostly just left a bad taste." She set the bottle down, the corner of her mouth lifting, easier now.
"What was wrong with yours?"
”Nothing wrong really… He had some interesting… baggage,” was the easiest way to put it. She didn’t want to out him or herself, not that she thought Sienna would care. Maybe it would be freeing. ˙ʇǝǝʍs ʎɹǝʌ sɐʍ ǝɥ ɥO Eve turned the glass around in her hand again, taking another sip, thinking back to the way Qing’s energy had felt in her space, that frayed and incomplete piece of a death relay that had attached to him, but she herself couldn’t get to. Frozen in time and held within him. She shrugged, ”and he was just a talker. Like, just yapping. Yap yap yap.” She opened and closed her hand like a puppet.
”Yours does sound worse…” Eve added, looking up at Sienna, the penny was beginning to drop that this was probably the pissed off feeling she’d stepped into earlier. ˙˙˙dǝʇsɹǝʌo ʇ,uoꓷ ”Maybe you don’t have to see him again though.” it wasn’t really a question, but the intonation of her words suggested it as one.
“Maybe,” Sienna stated, hesitant.
The pause that followed lasted a beat too long to be casual, her hands going still on the bar, her gaze drifting somewhere past Eve’s shoulder toward the door the man had walked out of less than ten minutes ago. Something in her expression shifted, briefly, into a stillness that had nothing playful left in it at all.
Then she blinked, and it was gone, tucked back wherever she kept the things she didn’t intend to discuss.
“I wish,” she expressed, lighter now, reaching for the cloth again though the bar in front of her was already spotless. “Unfortunately I don’t think I get to decide that.” She glanced back up at Eve, the easy almost-smile returning, though it took slightly more effort to arrange than it had a few minutes ago.
“Anyway.” She set the cloth aside, realizing she was just trying to keep her hands busy. “You were saying he was a talker.”
Eve drank down the last of the cocktail; whatever door had been ajar to Sienna’s psyche had been firmly closed. ”Mmhmm,” she uttered with a gulp. ”Was his job, I guess. To talk me through all the… Fixable things in my apartment. I should have felt like I was talked at, but… He actually seemed to want to help me out. Now I’m just talking at you about it.” She sighed and almost smiled. ”Anyway, him and his particular baggage has gotten all in my head… His baggage and his stupid gorgeous eyes. Uomo molto bello… Not the kind of distraction I need in my life right now, or ever, really.”
Sienna laughed, low and genuine, the first real one of the night.
“Stupid gorgeous eyes will do that,” she empathized, reaching for a fresh glass rather than refilling the one Eve had just finished. “Especially the blue ones. Those are the worst kind of distraction.”
She caught herself half a beat too late, the specificity of it hanging there longer than she meant it to, and busied her hands with the bottles in front of her rather than examine why she’d said it at all.
The brunette worked quickly, swapping the rye for cognac, easing back on the absinthe rinse, finishing it the same way - the long twist of lemon peel expressed over the glass rather than dropped in. Softer around the edges, the kind of drink she made for people who wanted something familiar.
“Sazerac’s cousin,” she explained, setting it down in front of Eve. “Try that instead. Sometimes the thing you don’t think you want is exactly the thing you need.”
She didn’t say anything else. She simply held Eve’s gaze for a beat, letting the comment do whatever quiet work it was going to do, and reached for the next order.
Under the advice of Sienna, Eve took a taste; raising her eyebrow and shooting an impressed smirk over the rim of the glass. Approved. It hadn’t been all that she’d inferred, though, had it? ”Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes… Not a one quite as sexy as our gentleman over there though, right?” she said. ”You make a good drink,” she added. ”Like you should make a living out of it or something.”
There was quiet for a moment, and Eve gave a short laugh. ”You know what? Now I’m just annoyed –” she sighed, a larger sip followed. ”We failed the bechdel test because of those fucking guys.” She rolled her eyes. ”Like it’s not enough they burst into our homes and bars and dangle their baggage around, or try to spin us a fair deal, or they leave a bad taste around. They make it so that when we talk about it, they get to define our very innocent, drink time conversations!”
She blinked a few times and looked at her glass. ”See that was the cognac talking. She pipes up fast.”
Sienna laughed - properly this time, the kind that came up from somewhere real rather than the practiced warmth she usually offered across the bar. She set down the bottle in her hand, giving herself fully over to the moment for once, rather than half-managing it the way she managed everything else tonight.
"God, you're right," she replied, shaking her head. "Honestly, the audacity. As if they don't already take up enough space rent-free." She leaned forward against the bar, propping herself up on her forearms, something easier in her posture than there had been all night.
"New rule," she said. "Next round, no men. Not even hypothetically. We talk about literally anything else."
She glanced toward the room, scanning for inspiration, before looking back at Eve with a mischievous glint. "Starting with - tell me something good. Anything. Doesn't have to be true."
She mulled it over. Sure, she could tell a lie and make something up but the best thing she could possibly say was the truth, a truth that sounded too ridiculous to be anything other than a lie and when she thought of it like that, it felt powerful in her pocket. “I'm breaking into a dead woman's apartment tonight,” she confessed. Oh, so we’re really doing this? Nobody else had heard it, that much she knew. Like really doing this? The music and general hum of the evening drowned it out. Even as she said it she felt the space between the two of them close in. She wanted something good, Eve wanted something good in return.
Sienna blinked, genuinely caught off guard for the first time all night - and then, slowly, something like delight spread across her face.
“Well,” she answered, “that’s certainly better than anything I had.”
She studied Eve for a moment, recalibrating, the easy warmth in her expression sharpening into something more curious, more genuinely interested. A dead woman’s apartment. Said so plainly, so unbothered, like it was simply the evening’s agenda rather than something most people would spend hours working up the nerve to confess.
“I’m not going to ask why,” she said, “because I have a feeling the why is the least interesting part.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice, though there was nothing stealthy in it - more the conspiratorial register of two people who’d just recognized something familiar in each other. “But I will say, for what it’s worth - I’m not exactly in a position to judge anyone’s evening plans.”
She reached for the bottle again, topping off her own glass this time, an unusual thing for her to do mid-shift.
“For what it’s worth,” she added, “I think I like you considerably more than I did ten minutes ago.”
”Give it another ten and you might change your mind,” Eve riffed back. This was nice, she had to admit. To actually connect with someone and be noticed. To notice them too. She meant it only half in jest, but the truth was she would eventually do something offputting but at least for now it was like having a friend, a friend for the moment and that was enough. ”And since I have ten minutes before the good will expires…” She leaned in just a little, glass close to her lips still, but eyes fixed to Sienna. ”Tell me something real, pretty lady.”
A truth for a truth. It was simple enough.
Yet something in Sienna’s throat stalled at the notion of sharing something personal, something real. Her life at The Velvet Room felt like smoke and mirrors half the time. A smile here, a compliment there, a laugh polished smooth enough to catch the light. She was good at giving people exactly enough of herself to make them feel like they'd seen behind the curtain, while the curtain never actually moved.
"Real," she echoed, tasting the word as though it belonged to someone else.
A beat passed between them - not awkward, exactly. Just quiet enough that it asked for honesty instead of demanding it. Sienna's smile faltered, just enough to notice.
"My mom and I..." She paused, searching for words that didn't feel rehearsed. "We love each other." A soft laugh escaped her. "We're just not very good at liking each other all the time."
She watched her thumb circle the condensation on her glass.
"She wanted a different life for me. A steadier one, I think. Something she could explain to people without changing the subject." The joke landed gently before dissolving.
"Every time I see her, I feel like I'm trying to convince her I'm doing okay. Prove I made the right decision opening this place." Her shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug. "And every time I leave..." She looked back at Eve, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth despite itself. "...I wonder if she still thinks she raised a disappointment."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. Sienna took a sip from her drink.
"That’s real."
Eve was quiet as the weight of both of their real truths settled, and all Sienna’s did was unsettle a string of something within Eve that she hadn’t stirred up in some time. The thought of what her own mother would have thought of her were she still alive. sʇɥƃnoɥʇ ǝsoɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎɐʍɐ ʎɐʇS I guess we’ll never know. She thought, with an almost callous edge to it and she bit back a comment that rose in her throat, something bitter to throw across the bar, aimed right at Sienna. ʎǝuoɥ ʇɐɥʇ op ʇ,uoꓷ
”Yeah but… Do you feel like you made the right decision?” she asked, with sincerity, having let the bile dissolve. She veered away from trying to dig any deeper, for one reason or another. “This is a pretty great place. You made it great.”
Sienna’s expression shifted at that last line. Not into surprise. Not quite into gratitude either. Something steadier. Pride, quiet but unmistakable. Her hand rested lightly on the polished wood beneath her glass, fingertips brushing the surface like she was reminding herself it was real.
"This place..." she answered, slower now, choosing each word with care, "is probably the only thing in my life I’ve never second-guessed." A small breath of a laugh followed, but it wasn’t self-deprecating this time. "I’ve made bad calls. I’ve walked away from things I probably shouldn’t have. I’ve stayed in things I definitely should’ve left sooner."
Her eyes lifted briefly, meeting Eve’s.
"But this?" A faint gesture around the room- subtle, not showy. "I built this. I fought for this.” There was warmth in her voice now, the kind that didn’t need defending.
"And I’m damn proud of it."
And like hell was anyone going to take it away from her.
“So then who cares what anyone else thinks about it? About you?” Eve had nothing of her own like this and she found herself right back at the start of their conversation all over again; right back in front of her as someone who she thought she should look up to. Her problems seemed so small though and maybe they were and so she chided herself for even going there. The doorway to that side of herself where bitterness and jealousy festered was hanging open and there was a light inside beckoning in her to come in and bathe in it. The fire in the rye was sparking something tonight.
She fidgeted uncomfortably, shuffling just enough that it looked like she was stretching her back from having been sat upright. Eve looked back into the glass, it should have been a slow sip but she drank the rest of it entirely. She had decided she wanted to keep the good will with Sienna. They had been having a nice time. All that fabric – far too flammable. ˙ǝɔıoɥɔ ʇɥƃıɹ ǝɥʇ s,ʇɐɥꓕ “If nothing else, you should be proud of how that drink tasted,” she said, having swallowed it – the strong blend of alcohols working its way through her system; hoping to incite a shudder from her but she remained still.
She eyed the empty glass and then looked back up at Sienna. Not exactly a friend, but maybe something else now. “Well, this apartment isn't going to break into itself and if I drink anymore I'm not going to make it. Dutch courage will become absolute failure.” She stood, all slender now with a slight sway to her posture that would work itself off soon enough. The bass was making the floor shudder again.
“Hey,” she said before she left entirely, “thanks for this. Maybe… Maybe we do this another time.” That felt strange, and yet not horrible.
Maybe it was just that easy, all the time.
Sienna watched her stand, the sway of her posture, the particular quality of someone bracing themselves for something they hadn’t quite admitted to be nervous about.
“Hey,” the brunette said, before Eve could fully turn away. “Be careful tonight.” It came off less like the easy professional concern she offered every departing guest and more like something she actually meant. She studied Eve for a moment, a steadiness in her expression that hadn’t been there before.
“And yeah,” she replied, “Another time. I’d like that.” She picked up the empty glass between them, turning it once in her hand before setting it down in the rack with the other dirty ones.
“You know where to find me,” she added, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I’m not exactly hard to track down.”
"You look like shit, when was the last time you slept?"
A look of shock and disgust crossed Dusks face, as he tossed the plan paper bag on the desk. A significant grease stain at the bottom of the bag, and as Andrew opened the bag the tell-tale aroma of one of Sandras finest speciality burgers infiltrated and spread out throughout the room. There weren't many people who could eat in autopsy, with a dead body mid-disection at the other side of the room, though Dominic doubted that Andrew even thought about it anymore.
"Probably sometime around, two thousand and fifteen-" He pointed over to the table where Paloma Torres lay disected, like a discarded jigsaw puzzle. "-Does old Buckley know you eat down here with a visitor?"
Andrew waved his hand dismissively and swallowed a mouthful of burger, before placing it back in the bag carefully and folding the top over. "I'm just sampling the merchandise. Just testing the quality of the bribe."
"Is bringing your old friend and colleague lunch considered a bribe?"
"Depends if the one giving the lunch expects information on an active criminal investigation?"
Dusk shrugged as he walked over to the body on the table. A tendril of guilt crept from the shadows and up into his chest. Gripping his heart and squeezing it, subconciously he lifted his hand to his chest and scratched his chest to get rid of the feeling. Surprisingly he felt his chest lighten, but he didn't pay much attention to the sensation or lack thereof. Instead he looked down at the body on the slab, the body that was there because he had failed in his duty. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out two brown envelopes, both sealed with an old wax seal. Engraved with a decorative pair of wings and the initials P.T. One was addressed to him, and the other was a Two whom it may concern.
"What's that you've got?" The uneven footsteps followed him over to the table, Andrews fascination more on the envelope than the body. Dusk filtered between them in his hands and offered him one, Andrew was a whom who often had concern.
"Updated last will and testemant, all signed and sealed. It also includes the wishes for her body. She wants to be a tree."
"A tree?"
Dusk shrugged as he looked down at the body. "Apparently that's a thing you can do now," he slipped the other envelope back into his inside pocket. "She was always a bit on the weird side. I mean who even uses wax seals anymore?"
"I think its whimsical."
"You would." Dusk retorted sardonically.
"I'm sorry, which one of us is a walking cliché?
The two stood there for what felt like hours in silence, it was Dusk that broke it first. Clearing his throat and turning back to Andrew. "So what can you tell me?" Andrew rolled his eyes, and walked back to his chair, spinning around and grabbing the burger before spinning back to face Dusk. Mouthful of burger he started.
"Same as all the others. She's been cleaned, exceptionally well. There is not a spot of dirt on here anywhere-"
"Anywhere?"
"Did I stutter? Andrew raised his hand, lifting a finger as he went. Counting off to prove a point. "Under the fingernails, toe nails, ears, mouth, nose and well," he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Let us just say, no stone was left unturned and whoever is behind this is very thorough."
"That's never a good thing. Especially as she phoned me before she went missing, she said she had a -"
The door opened with a hiss, and Dusk winced to himself as he recognised the gait coming into the room. Her voice raised, filled with contempt.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
Dusk pointed to himself, then to Andrew innocently. A look of a child whose hand was caught in the cookie jar upon his face. Lucy crossed her arms as she stared him down, whatever she had been doing before she came here, it didn't have her in a good mood.
"Lunch delivery service?"
"Funny." Lucy pointed to Andrew, and then a thumb to the door. "You, out."
Dusk and Andrew looked at eachother, before they both spoke and made a bee-line for the door. "Yeah we should get going"
Lucy held up her hand infront of Dominic as he attempted for the door, and he had to conciously stop himself from flinching or wincing. "I'll see you later Dom," he walked out the door, nodding politely at Lucy on his way out, and she returned the polite nod. Her pale blue eyes were ice cold as they bore down into his skull. She stood there staring at him for a very uncomfortable minute, as if he was just going to come out and spill all his secrets unprompted and unwarranted. There was a period of time when he would have withered under it, crumbled fell and broke. Not anymore.
"Just what do you think you're doing butting into my investigation?"
"I think you'll find that I was actually involved in it first, she was my client afterall."
"Then perhaps you can tell me why? That could be pertinent to my investigation."
"Check your records, there was a report made. Assuming the desk clerk even bothered, he wasn't too interested when she stopped by before." Dusk tried to move passed her again, but when she moved to block him he spun on his heel and walked backwards to try and create some distance between the two of them.
"You realise there was a time when you actually trusted me to run an investigation," She spoke softly, but he didn't turn to bring back eye contact. Instead he just looked down upon Paloma. Peaceful, yet tortured. Her hair had been a variety in colours in the time that he had known her, she was never one to settle down and take things easy. He should have known this would happen, a bird was never happy when it was caged. "You need to trust me."
Dusk still didn't look up from the closed eyes. "You'll need to earn it." He looked up at her, his face blank and expressionless. "She came to me because her fiancé was missing, back when the greys started going missing. Your desk clerk told her he likely just got cold feet and he would show up in a week or two. He didn't." He walked straight passed Lucy in the doorway, she didn't move to stop him. "Thats all you're getting from me." As he waited for the elevator he was expecting her to come after him, to chase. Some small part of him wanted her too, he squashed that part back down. As the doors opened he stepped in, pulling the envelope back out from his pocket. Dusk broke the seal, and tipping the open envelope into his hand he looked down at the small appartment door key and he nodded.
Paloma wasn't done just yet, she had found something and Dominic Dusk wasn't going to let that be in vain.
I step out of the convenience store, digging through the brown paper bag, brushing aside a few packs of ramen and pulling out the stick of beef jerky I bought. With one hand still holding the bag, I use the other to hold the stick while opening the wrapper with my teeth, then take a bite and start the walk home. Only a few more blocks past some old warehouses. The conversation with my dad at Haven was still weighing on my mind no matter how hard I tried not to think about it. "Just because you think you have to be a hero doesn't mean you have to stop being a person." His words echo in my mind, bouncing off the walls inside my skull so I can't ignore it.
He's wrong. Mom had two lives before her identity was uncovered, and when they became one it just made it easier for Omega to track her down and kill her. I can't do the same thing. I can't risk ruining someone else's life because I died. I don't want to leave a child behind the way she - I reel back from the thought as soon as it enters my mind, feeling disgusted with myself that I would even imply mom's death was her own fault, like she abandoned me instead of giving her life defending me and dad.
I sigh. "Goddammit..." I shake my head in an attempt to get rid of all the negative thoughts, walking past a row of dilapidated warehouses that were shut down long before I was even born. A voice sounds off as I'm about to take another bite of beef jerky, faint but still loud enough to be heard clearly.
"Just you stop right there. Freak."
I stop in my tracks, casting a glance in the direction of the voice only to find no one looking at me. Guess I wasn't the person that was aimed towards. For a second I wonder if I'm starting to lose it when I hear another voice, quieter than the other and quivering in fear: "I-uh-I-I'm sorry, I didn't know this uh, building was still in o-operation... W-w-wait, what are y-UGH!"
Shit.
I break into a sprint towards the sound of the voices, ducking through an alleyway between the buildings. Damn, don't have my costume, gotta hide my identity somehow... I stop, look at the big paper bag I have in my hand, then dump the contents in the alley before sliding it over my head. I poke holes through it where my eyes are and find that I can see pretty clearly, even if the edges of my vision are obscured. It'll work... Even if I look ridiculous.
The sounds of a beating get clearer as I get further down the alley, only to see what's unfolding as I turn a corner: three guys dressed in all black with kevlar vests, using batons to beat on some poor guy in coveralls as he's curled up on the ground. I don't bother coming up with a witty quip. I just summon my sword, keep it blunt, and fling it at one of the men. It strikes him right in the head, sending him reeling backwards as his black shades fly off his face in the opposite direction. He lands on the ground with a thud, knocked out cold.
The sword is about to hit the ground when I act fast, yanking my arm back and recalling it to my hand. It flies true and I wrap my fingers around the grip, getting into a fighting stance. Almost like I was practicing that. The other men have noticed me now, probably would have been hard not to after that, shouting out colorful streams of curses as they abandon their victim to focus on me. I see two more men climb out of a black SUV maybe fifty feet away, holding similar batons. They start sprinting forward as the two men ahead of them rush to meet me.
Four guys. I don't think I've ever taken on more than two people at once before. Time to see if I can hold my own.
One of the men runs in with a wild swing and I duck out of the way, swinging my sword into his chest. It connects and he wheezes as the air is knocked out of him, clutching at his ribs with one hand while the other struggles to keep a grip on the baton. I pull my blade back and lift it high, bringing it down hard on his head. His entire body lurches forward, his face slamming into the cement. He's out.
I look up from the unconscious man only to see a baton slam right into my nose. I stumble back, dazed, recovering just in time to take a fist to the gut that makes me keel over. Another baton slams into my jaw, sending me to the floor, my sword slipping out of my grasp and clattering to the ground. My vision is blurry, vomit rises in the back of my throat, every muscle in my body feels like it's on fire. A boot comes down hard on my chest, pressing my chest into the asphalt. I groan in pain.
"Heh. Two Grays for the price of one," the man standing over me says. "Good deal. Get him in the van with the rat freak."
No.
No no no no no.
Get up.
Get the fuck up.
Don't let it end like this.
I throw my hands up to wrap them around the man's ankle but he just kicks them away, sending his boot into my chin and making my head snap back. It bounces off the concrete and I realize that I can't do anything. They're going to take me who the hell knows where and do who the fuck knows what.
Rock was right. I'm not cut out for this. I should have stopped while I had the chance.
I close my eyes.
And then I can't hear anything except an ear-piercing screech.
It's even more painful than the beating I just took, pounding against my eardrums and frying my brain. After a few seconds I realize that the boot is off of me now. Fighting through the pain, I try to pull myself up and stand using whatever strength I have left. I've managed to prop myself up on my elbows when suddenly the sound stops, my ears still ringing but my head clearer than it was. I look over to see the guy in coveralls unconscious with a tranquilizer dart in his neck, his mouth wide open as if he had been screaming.
The other three men that were ganging up on me are on the ground with the two that I knocked out, hands pressed over their ears as they try to pick themselves back up. A sixth man with a tranquilizer gun in his hand stands over the Gray they were all trying to kidnap. I pull myself to my feet just as the other men do. The man with the dart gun raises it and levels it at me, pulling the slide back to load another dart. Panic bursts through me but I keep it together and grab the nearest man, holding him in front of me just as the dart is fired. It pierces him in the chest and he goes limp in my arms.
I toss him to the side, seeing that the other two men have recovered now, picking up their batons. The one with the tranq gun lifts the man in coveralls over his shoulder, shouting to the other two: "I got the rat, just fucking kill the one with the sword!" The men look to each other, grin, then come at me with their batons.
I can barely stand. They're going to beat my head to fucking mush. I can't just let them do that. I recall my sword, left forgotten on the ground after they all got their hands on me, and as soon as it hits my hand I pour everything I have into making it as sharp as possible. I stumble backwards as one swings at me, thrusting my sword towards his chest and closing my eyes. I feel the blade slide deep into his ribs with little effort, hear his death rattle as he goes limp.
I open my eyes. The other man is hesitating, stunned to see his friend impaled against my sword. A scream of rage rips out of my throat as I yank my sword out of the man's chest, sending the corpse to the floor, and swing with all my might at the second man. I look right into his eyes and see fear before the blade connects, slicing through his neck. His head rolls off of his shoulders and hits the ground with a dull splat, his body standing still for a second before it hits the ground too.
I fall to my hands and knees, rip off the paper bag, and vomit violently. I can hear the tires of the SUV squealing as it tears out of the parking lot. Bile continues to flow out of my mouth, and after a while I don't even have anything left in my stomach but acid, which keeps coming out anyway. Eventually it comes to a stop and I pull myself up, trying not to look at the two dead men.
Everything hurts. I take in deep breaths to steady my racing heart. It doesn't help. My breath hitches as I choke back a sob, clenching my eyes shut so I don't accidentally look at the men I just killed. I stumble forward, pressing a hand against the wall of the warehouse, and limp away into the night.
Present - Morning ◈ Joanie Porter, Marth Oldfox ◈ The Docks (St. Dymphna’s Home For Wayward Youths) ◈ Joanie@Natty, Marth@Memoria
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Another day, another job interview.
This one was at a coffee shop that told her she didn’t have enough experience to pour drinks. The rejection sat heavy in her chest, another reminder that she was running out of options.
“Joanie, this is the third one this week.” Mrs. Qadir exclaimed as they moved through the hallway, their arms filled with laundry.
Given everything with Rowan, Mrs. Qadir was stretched thin, her worry spilling into every corner of the house. Joanie coming home after failing yet another interview was just another problem on her belt.
“I know, I know” Joanie said, heat rising in her chest. “It’s not my fault.”
How on earth was she meant to get experience if no one wanted to hire her? It was a vicious cycle.
Mrs. Qadir simply shook her head in response, stepping closer to the laundry shoot. “You have been distracted. Anyone can see it.”
Joanie’s jaw tightened. “That’s not why they turned me down.”
Deep down though she knew it was a factor. Her temper had been worsening the last few days. It hasn’t been help by that Detective’s phone number taking her straight to an answering machine. She had left a message but wasn’t hopeful.
There wasn’t much room for hope these days.
“Maybe not,” Qadir said, her voice sharpening, “but I’m worried about you sweetie. You come home everyday looking like the world is ending. You barely sleep. You barely eat. You are out every night searching for Rowan. I understand why, but I cannot have you falling apart right now.”
“I am not falling apart,” Joanie snapped. “I am trying. I am doing everything I can.”
“I know you are,” Qadir said, softer now, but the fear in her voice was unmistakable. “But child services are breathing down my neck. They want answers. They want proof this home is stable. They want to know why a boy is missing and why the older kids look exhausted and frightened.”
Joanie looked away, throat tight. “So this is my fault.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
Qadir’s composure cracked. “I’m scared, Joanie. I’m scared for Rowan. I’m scared for all of you. I am scared of losing this home. I am doing everything I can to keep this place together, and I need you with me, not fighting me.”
“I can’t do this right now,” Joanie muttered, the pressure behind her ribs building until she felt it in her fingertips. She dropped the clothes in a heap at her feet.
“Joanie…”
She turned sharply, the movement sending a faint tremor through the wall beside her. Mrs. Qadir’s eyes flicked to it, worry deepening, but she did not speak again.
Joanie stormed down the stairs in a tight, frustrated huff and pushed into the kitchen, needing space, needing air, needing to get away before she said something she could not take back.
—--
For the next few days, Marth slept beneath the crooked roofs of the Old Prue Gables.
It was safer there, everyone agreed, than letting him stay alone in his flat in The Docks with Bruno able to appear and vanish like a bad thought. The decision had been made around the long dining table with the grave democracy of family panic. His mother with one hand over her mouth, his father going silent in the way he did before anger found its color, Sybil speaking in clipped and poisonous little sentences, and Bone trying to make jokes and failing at every single one. Marth had confessed the whole thing, or nearly the whole thing, after the Remembrance break had ended.
He had not enjoyed being the subject of everyone’s love when love had become alert and armed. The Old Prue Gables itself seemed to take the news personally. It creaked around him at night like an old aunt keeping watch. The plum-gray walls held lamplight late into the evening. Someone always knew when he came downstairs or when he needed tea before asking. Marth noticed Bone pretending not to be waiting in the hall when he returned from brushing his teeth.
All at once, it was tender, suffocating and unfortunately, safer. So Marth behaved.
He went to Oceanside Middle School in the mornings, taught his classes, and returned directly to the Old Prue Gables as soon as the school day ended. No wandering. No coffee shops unless accompanied. And certainly no traveling home alone with his mind half-open to the city.
Marth’s family had become especially creative about texting him when traveling alone was his only option. Sybil sent threats disguised as check-ins, the kind only big sisters could do with instinctive finesse. Bone sent humorously artful photographs of himself looking suspiciously through windows. His mother sent little hearts, then long silences, which were worse.
Marth kept telling them he was all right. This was not untrue. It was only incomplete.
Still, other worries had begun gathering at the edges of him. One of his students, Rowan, a resident of St. Dymphna’s, had not been coming to music class. While absence was not always disaster, Marth had learned that silence around children often had weight. The recent report of missing Grays had made that weight heavier. Every rumor seemed to have teeth now.
There had been other small heartbreaks too. Samir’s love song had not survived the morning after all. Marth had not needed his gift to know it. One look at the boy’s body language had told him everything. Seventh-grade affection had met the world and limped back from it. Marth had felt ridiculously sad about that, perhaps more than was reasonable.
After a few days, half-distracted and uncharacteristically wound tight with his students, Oceanside’s principal (once he confessed to her why he was not performing at his best) asked him to take some time off. So he did.
When Marth got the chance, he volunteered at St. Dymphna’s Wayward Home, though he had always disliked the word wayward. It made the children sound like roads that had been chosen incorrectly, when most of them had only been pushed, chased, lost, hidden, or left to find their way through a world that kept moving the signs. He helped where he could. Music sometimes. Groceries sometimes. Homework, little repairs, errands, piano accompaniment for the few who could be talked into singing. Over time, he had formed relationships with some of the young people there. Not dramatically as some savior with a songbook and a soft cardigan. Simply by returning. There was power in returning, he knew. Children noticed who came back.
Joanie had noticed, though Marth would not have presumed to say what that meant.
On this particular visit, he spoke first with Mrs. Qadir. They sat in her office with the door half-closed and talked about Rowan—and Joanie, who apparently had stormed off not long after he had arrived. They talked about Rowan’s missed school days and whether anyone had seen him. They couldn’t help but assume there was a connection between him and the reports of the missing Grays, which had begun to make every ordinary absence feel haunted.
Mrs. Qadir was one of the few people outside Marth’s family, Oceanside’s principal, and Bruno, who knew what he was. A Gray. A telepath. A man who could hear more than anyone had given him permission to. She did not ask him to use it. He was grateful for that. He was also aware of what it cost not to ask when his power made it so easy to pry.
By the time Marth entered the kitchen, he was carrying a cardboard box of groceries balanced against one hip. Of course, Joanie was there. Mrs. Qadir had informed him as much.
Marth saw her before she saw—no. He did not let himself reach for more than what he could see. He closed his mind gently but firmly, the way one closed a door in a house where someone might be sleeping. Whatever Joanie was thinking belonged to Joanie. He would not brush against it by accident, if he could help it. Not right now when she had enough people in the world trying to take things from her without asking. Still, he had eyes. And his eyes were enough to tell him what her mind did not need to. Her posture had edges today. Her expression held a silver undercurrent. This was not the ordinary 18-year-old bad mood that came with boredom or insulted pride. This had sparks to it.
And as Marth gazed at her for that brief moment, really gazed at her, there was understanding and quiet, tender solidarity.
Perhaps even more than that.
There was witchlight in his eyes. Soft, starry, and comforting like magic.
Marth shifted the box against the counter and began unpacking it without ceremony, setting cans in small, tidy rows. He did not look at her too directly again. Direct concern could sometimes feel like a lamp held too close to the face. He had learned that from students, his siblings, and even himself. He took out another can and set it beside the others, finally speaking to Joanie without looking at her.
“Mrs. Qadir said I’d find you in here. Everything alright?”
Without waiting for an answer he turned, opened one cabinet, considered it, and gave a small, thoughtful hum.
“Actually, yes…this is worse than I feared.” he said with a sort of breathlessness that made it sound like he was noting something to himself with a murmur. His mouth tilted, not quite a smile and not quite asking for one.
She had been stewing in silence when he entered, her eyes were fixated down on the table she sat at. Her eyes blinked up at Marth as he placed down the groceries, before giving him a smile as she tried to bring herself out of her mood.
She was back up onto her feet in an instant, moving to help as if on autopilot. She grabbed a bag of carrots and some greens before making her way past him to the fridge.
Marth was one of the few volunteers Joanie actually respected. Most of the people who drifted through the house came with that look in their eyes that said they were here to save each and every one of them. Some of them talked to the kids like they were made of glass. Others talked to them like they were problems waiting to happen. Marth never did either. He moved through the place like someone who understood that help did not need to be loud to be real.
She had never been in his class. By the time he started teaching at Oceanside Middle she had already aged out of the system. But the younger ones talked about him with a kind of easy fondness that was rare for a teacher. Joanie did not know if all of that was true, but she believed enough of it.
“I’m fine.” She lied, placing her items neatly into the fridge’s vegetable drawers. Even she could tell by her tone unfortunately that that wasn’t the truth though.
“You know how it is,” she continued without turning. “Long morning. Kids were loud. Qadir’s stressed. Nothing new.”
It was like she was trying to convince herself.
Thankfully his follow up comment as he opened the cupboard was a good distraction. Her eyes flicked in the direction of Marth and the open cupboard before him as she made her way back to the bag.
“What’s wrong?” She asked inquisitively.
“Ooooh, nothing serious. I may have left a small tea tin here, that’s all.” Marth said, glancing toward the upper shelf and then toward Joanie with a warm, soft smile of the eyes.
“Lavender. Blue lid. Blackcurrants on the side. My mother is convinced it improves difficult mornings.”
He paused for a moment, then said, almost absently, “Mrs. Qadir keeps the tea somewhere high, doesn’t she? I always forget which self.”
Her eyebrows raised themselves in recognition as he described it. She dragged the stool she’d been previously perched in across the floor with her foot and stepped up onto it, reaching up towards one of the taller cabinets that she’d long since claimed as her territory for storing treats and snacks that needed to be kept safe from prying hands. Her fingers skimmed along the back of the shelf until they closed around a similar tin.
“Oh, this one?” She asked, easing it out carefully before presenting it to Marth. “Yeah sorry we had to move things about a few weeks back.”
She thought back to it; one of the newer residents, who whilst nice, was just absolutely ravenous. He’d eat anything he’d get his hands on. And as they soon discovered after finding the remains of one of the locks they’d tried on the cupboard doors, it wasn’t just food he would eat. Poor kid.
She stepped off the stool and offered it to him.
“Had no idea it was yours.” She said apologetically. “Might have to give it a try, then.”
Marth accepted the tin from her with both hands, as if it were something more fragile and breakable than tea.
“Yes, that’s the one. Thank you.”
His thumb moved lightly over the painted blackcurrants on the side, and for a moment his expression warmed with a fondness that had clearly come from somewhere old and domestic. His gaze seemed a bit starry as he gazed down at it. And then he came back to himself and looked up at her.
“And don’t apologize. I leave things everywhere. My family has made a small mythology of it.” he said, his tone tinted with a soft humor.
A pause.
Then, gently, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, “Actually, I could make us some now. Let’s do that. I get the feeling we could both use a little decompressing, though it’s not quite as miraculous as my mother claims.” he said, chuckling lightly. Marth set the tin on the counter and reached for the kettle, moving with the same unhurried care he had given the groceries. No pressure or bright, direct concern. Only water, tea, lavender honey, and the quiet permission for the room to become something softer.
After a few minutes of preparation, he handed Joanie a mug and then cupped his own as he sat at the dining table, beckoning her to join him. The room filled with the scent of dark berries and lavender. He let the steam rise into his pores, blowing gently into the mug to cool it off before shifting his gaze up to her. On the table in front of him was a small handful of creamy sugar violets wrapped in gilded foil. He’d brought them from Old Prue Gables, nicked from one of the empty guest rooms on his way out.
“How strange things have become. Haven’t they?”
She brought the mug to her nose, apprehensively, as she took in the scent herself, before bring it down to her lips for a sip. She almost winced from the temperature, but god, was it good.
She nodded to herself slightly in satisfaction, gave the steaming liquid a quick blow, before bringing it back to her lips.
“Your mother is a smart woman” She breathed after another sip, before turning to listen to what Marth was saying.
Strange was definitely one word for it. Although there were certainly other words Joanie would probably have used to describe how life had changed for her recently.
She simply nodded.
“Guessing you heard about Row?”
Marth nodded softly, “Mhm. He hasn’t been in class for a few days, so I had hoped you might have an inkling of his whereabouts. Mrs. Qadir, nor I, have the faintest clue.”
She certainly had some ideas, but none she wanted to share just yet. She was still secretly hoping it wasn’t true.
“We’ve checked some of the homeless camps.” She explained, gesturing her head in the general direction of the overpass. “No luck sadly.”
She leant back against the counter, cradling her drink. It was frustrating. Finding a lone kid in a city like this was impossible. Maybe they would’ve had more luck if that damned detective would’ve picked up the phone, but it seems they were by themselves here.
Marth’s gaze had lowered to his mug while she spoke, following the slow turn of lavender steam as it curled upward and disappeared. The kitchen was quiet around them in that worn, morning way, with the radiator ticking beneath the window and the soft clink of his spoon settling against the ceramic.
“No luck,” he repeated gently, mostly to himself.
He believed her frustration before he had time to think about it. It lived in the room with them, sharp at the edges, threaded through the warm scent of berries and flower. And then, because he was tired, because Bruno had frayed him more than he wanted to admit, because the city had been too loud lately and his careful inner doors had not latched quite right…
Maybe they would’ve had more luck if that damned detective would’ve picked up the phone.
Marth looked up, faintly puzzled. “The detective?” he asked.
It came out naturally, too naturally, as if she had said it aloud. Only she hadn’t. And only after the words had left him did he realize the silence had shifted. His hand stilled around the mug. The tea steamed between them, sweet and dark and suddenly fragile. A small, delicate horror moved through his face. Not dramatic. Only enough to dim the starry softness that often resided in his eyes.
Joanie blinked, the words landing wrong in her ears. Her fingers tightened around the mug, just enough to show the hitch in her chest before she smoothed it over.
“The… detective?” she echoed, brow pulling in. A small, puzzled frown. “I didn’t say anything about that?”
Marth blinked, softening the mistake into something quieter. For a moment, he only looked at her.
“No,” he said, with a faint little sip of his tea. “You didn’t.”
His gaze slipped down to the mug in his hands, to the steam uncurling itself into nothing from the dark tea. He gave a small, almost rueful hum, gentle enough to pass for self-correction.
“With Rowan missing, I suppose I got ahead of myself.”
Marth let the words rest there, simple and almost unremarkable, then took another careful sip of tea as if that were the end of it. His thumb moved once along the curve of the mug. A pause. Not too long. He let that be all the explanation he offered. Just enough to make the strange little stumble seem like a teacher’s tired, worried assumption rather than anything more. He reached for one of the sugared violets, unwrapped it with quiet fingers and set it beside his mug. He grabbed another one and held it out for her to take, soft-eyed, natural, and careful.
“Has someone tried to reach one yet?”
Her eyebrows raised slightly in confusion as he explained himself. Sure what he said was reasonable, but it was also odd. She gave him an inquisitive look as she took the violet, but couldn’t read from his face what he was thinking.
Marth let his gaze drift down to his tea, as though there were some answer waiting in the steam. He had learned, over the years, that if one looked too eager to be understood, people often became suspicious of the understanding.
“No clue, honestly.” She admitted, unwrapping it and putting it into her mouth. “Guess that’s for child services to decide whether it’s worth their time.”
The way Mrs. Qadir had spoken about it didn’t make her hopeful.
“I tried calling someone. We have a P.I. who rocks up here from time to time” She let out another sigh, leaning back once more in frustration. “Not gotten back to me yet though. Typical.”
“Mmm, I see…” Marth breathed softly. He did not ask for the detective’s name. Not yet. His mind funneled with unsettling thoughts about an 18-year old calling an unknown private investigator about a very serious matter and it brought a pang of deep concern. Certainly Mrs. Qadir didn’t know about this, he assumed. He hid the concern well beneath his steam-misted gaze. For now, he made a mental note to himself to look into this Detective further once he found a moment of respite.
She centered herself as she held her mug close, letting the warmth soak into her hands.
“This whole week has just… worn me down,” she said quietly. “It really makes you think about what it means to be a Gray. How people look at you. How quick they are to decide what you are, what you’re worth. Sometimes it feels like no matter what we do, there’s always someone out there who wants to see us hurt, or scared, or pushed into corners just so they can feel better about themselves.”
She shifted her weight against the counter, thumb brushing the rim of her mug.
“And it’s not even like my gifts are obvious. I’m not like Franklin or Mina. Half the time people don’t even realize I’m a Gray until something goes wrong. But it still sticks to you. That feeling that you’re being watched differently. Judged differently. Expected to fail in ways other people never have to think about.”
Her gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused.
“And with Rowan still missing… it’s hard not to think the worst. And people don’t look as hard. They don’t worry the same way. If he were normal, there would be posters everywhere. There would be people out searching. Instead it feels like the world just shrugs and moves on.”
She took a slow sip, shoulders curling in slightly.
“I think that’s what’s getting to me. That feeling that we’re always one bad moment away from being treated like we’re not even people. And I’m so tired of it. Tired of being different. Tired of pretending it doesn’t get under my skin.”
Her voice softened, almost a whisper.
“And without school, I don’t even have a place to breathe anymore. I hated it, but at least it got me out of the house. Now it’s just chaos here, all day, every day, and I love everyone but… I need space. I need quiet. I need one minute where I’m not bracing for the next thing to go wrong.”
She looked down into her mug, eyes heavy.
“Just one minute where being a Gray isn’t the first thing anyone sees.”
Something in Marth’s chest went very still. Not surprise. It was a feeling closer to recognition, though recognition kept behind glass. He looked at Joanie with the same mild gentleness he always carried, but guilt had begun its small work inside him. He was sitting across from her with his secret folded neatly behind his teeth. A Gray listening to another Gray speak as if he were only a kind volunteer with tea and soft hands. It was not a lie, exactly. But it had the shape of one.
He had his reasons for hiding his status as a Gray from most people, including Joanie. Safety. Privacy. His family. The city with its appetite for names and categories and things to fear. Still, the reasons did not make the guilt lighter.
So for a moment, Marth said nothing. He only sat with her in the quiet she had made. Then he set his mug down gently, careful not to let the ceramic strike too hard against the table.
“Take a breath for me,” he said softly.
Not like a command or a correction. More like an invitation to set one burden down before picking up the next.
She nodded, taking in a deep breath with a nod.
“One thing at a time.” His voice stayed low, almost domestic and maternal, as if they were discussing the groceries again. Almost as if, the world could be made smaller by speaking gently enough.
“You’ve got a lot going on, Joanie, and it all matters. It really does. But you can’t hold every piece at once without eventually cutting your hands on it.”
His mouth softened a little, not quite into a smile.
“So for now, let’s focus on something closer and more in your control.”
He let the thought settle before continuing.
“I can’t necessarily guarantee you quiet, but you said you need somewhere to breathe, right?”
A pause.
“Well, the Old Prue Gables could use some help.”
He said it plainly, with no grand announcement attached. No bright, eager rescue or charity dressed up in ribbons. Only an opening placed simply on the table between them. And truthfully, his family’s bed and breakfast could use a lot of help. It had been understaffed for several months now after his eldest twin sisters, Penelope and Piper, had moved overseas for a long-stay humanitarian aid assignment. And with Bone, the youngest Oldfox sibling and his only brother, having just started university and a new job as a Barista, the only one who could consistently help around the place was his perpetually unemployed older sister and middle child, Sybil. And at 28, she was still as much of a handful for their parents as she was for them when she was 8.
“It’s mostly guest work, which I suppose is many of the things you already help out with around here.”
He lazily gestured to the space around them with a loose flick of the wrist.
“You know, breakfast things, laundry, changing rooms, setting tables, helping guests. Hell, helping my grandmother pretend she isn’t at war with our online reservation system.” His expression warmed faintly at that, fond despite himself. “It can be busy, but sometimes quiet too. It’s not chaos in the same way…” he paused, thoughtfully, “...you might be accustomed to. But the house has rules. Old ones, mostly. And a great many stairs.”
“And there’s the Faraway Tree too…” his voice trailed off when he said that. He wasn’t sure why he brought that up. Perhaps an etched memory, no matter how unrelated, had subconsciously crawled itself to the surface as he thought about home. He continued.
“I can speak to my family. Properly, I mean. See if we can make something steady of it.” Then more softly, he added, “You would be paid. And you would be allowed to close a door when you needed to.” Meaning, she could have her own room there when she needed to escape from it all.
That, he suspected, mattered more than the rest. Marth reached for his mug again but did not drink.
“But no need to decide this second,” he said. “Just breathe first. Then we can take the next thing after that.”
Joanie’s eyes widened as he spoke, her heart fluttering. Appreciation shone across her face as she placed down her mug on the counter. The Gables had an air of familiarity too it. It was like the home in a way. It sounded like just what she needed.
“Nah, I don’t need a second” She beamed. “That sounds perfect!”
She had a job!
Marth let out a soft chuckle as he looked at her with a warm, dazzling gaze. There it was again. The witchlight in his eyes.
“I am a shark, the ground is my ocean, and most people can’t even swim.” - Rickson Gracie
The Everyday Heroes Center was the jewel of the Narragansett Bay. It was designed in the style of all the United States’ greatest civic buildings, with wide arched roofs supported by marbled ionic columns. The base of the centermost column, beside the Center’s revolving doors was carved into the form of a man. The Mountain bore the column’s weight across his back, grinning wide beneath his half mask at passersby. It was based on a photo from his early years, using his hysteric strength to brace a bridge against the weight of the passenger train that roared across it. The statue was commissioned by the Lichtensteins as part of their donation to the center, revealed as part of the final design as the Center opened its doors. Saw always hated it.
They even wanted to call it the “Saw Chaw Center”, a prospect that made Saw sick. This place was meant to have food and clothing drives, dedicated social workers and services, housing assistance, legal support, public recreation spaces; all ways meant to hold up the average person, not prop up Saw’s ego. Rock never understood it as a child. It was his glory, so Saw should feel free to claim it, not shun it. Saw fought for it anyway, fought to keep his name off of it, used Thiri’s legal connections to ensure the place was made by and for the people of Calder. He swore as long as he stood he’d never let greed or ambition poison it.
Now, standing before it, Rock knew the poison had seeped in anyway. The Count’s money had wormed its way in, beneath their notice. Saw only drove support, he was a figurehead. He never kept track of the books or the particulars of the donations or donors. Had he seen The Count’s contribution he would have rejected it outright. It came from extortion and selfish deals. The Count would use his scientific mind to engineer some new innovation, medical devices and drugs that could save the lives of millions; then he would sell them to the highest bidder for private use only. It was blood money.
Blood money that had to have given him latitude in the Center’s construction. He had a portfolio of hideouts across the world and in the city over the years, and it figured he would conspire to place one at the heart of his greatest enemy’s desires. If it was like any of his others, it would be undetectable to passersby, hidden from even those that lived and worked in the Center every day. It would be almost impossible to find. But The Count was nothing if not vain: he would have left his signature.
Rock pushed through the revolving doors and into the main hall, greeted by a pair of bright eyed staffers who wanted to know how they could help him today.
“Gym,” Rock grunted, stepping down a hall he hadn’t trod in years. The gym was where the Center held its self defense and disaster response classes, preparing ordinary citizens to deal with the worst the greys could throw at them. But the gym was not Rock’s final destination. He unzipped his hoodie a fraction and consulted the compartments of the utility belt looped around his shoulder.
Saw was no gadgeteer, he preferred to solve most of his problems with might and vigor, but he tried to include gizmos to get around situations he could not punch out, especially in his kid sidekick’s iteration of the belt. Most of the equipment inside was sourced from or otherwise invented by other members of the Vanguard. There were the Mountain shurikens forged by Anvil, smoke bombs from Eagle Eye, a hi-power flashlight donated by Beacon, and the one Rock’s hand closed around: the TMPD, Techtronic’s Multi-Purpose Detector.
The TMPD could read barometric pressure and altitude, function as a compass, radar, automap, and detect about every type of wave there is. In this case, it was a geiger counter. Rock took the palm-size TMPD and cranked its sensitivity as high as it would go. The Count would have marked the entrance to whatever structure he’d hidden within the Center with a minute amount of radioisotope iodine-131, barely traceable above background radiation, undetectable by conventional equipment. In the event of a disaster, natural or otherwise, The Count could use it to locate the remnants of his strongholds to recover his research. It doubled as a calling card, his challengers would know what to look for. A sign Rock and The Mountain had found many times.
Ten minutes padding across the Center’s linoleum tiles brought Rock to his answer. In the east wing, beyond the gym and a battery of soundproofed study spaces, an anonymous fire control panel pinged hot on the TMPD. It was larger than standard, a thick red plate poking out of the wall. Rock stuck his fingers behind it and pulled, prying it open. It revealed a hollow space with a fireman’s pole.
Rock descended into the darkness, broken up only by muted strips of glowing green light. He didn’t know how far he slid, ten feet, twenty, a hundred, until his feet came to rest against unfinished concrete. The room was ten feet across, dominated by a curved, featureless steel wall all along the far end. A raised red button was all Rock could make out in the darkness. He pressed it and grinding gears filled as ears as the steel wall began to shift. Plumes of concrete dust fell around Rock and the wall turned inch by inch, revealing an elevator sized box. He stepped inside as the movement stopped and pressed another button. The passage sealed behind him and he was rotated once more. It felt like Rock was a kid again, back on one of Saw’s stupid family trips to Corsair’s Cove, being shuffled through lines, up and down rickety stairwells to disappointing slides that led to nowhere, a farce that did nothing but keep him busy. Maybe this was some joke by The Count, at the end of this he’d find nothing but a featureless wall, another statement of The Count’s superiority. Or maybe there’d be a bomb, to blast him apart for his insolence.
Instead of a killbox, the wall opened before Rock into a grand chamber. It reminded Rock of the colosseum in Rome, as though the ancient structure had a cast made in the bowels of Calder City’s infrastructure. Rows of gunmetal stasis tubes defined the outermost circle, filled with off-green liquid that reminded Rock of uncracked glowsticks. Each housed an organ or strip of bone floating in solution. Rock made out hearts, lungs, and lumps of replacement muscle, growing or stewing in their nutrient soup, ready to be fitted into The Count as needed. They were the open secret of his long life. He couldn't heal like Saw. Instead he flash-cloned every part of himself, replacing anything damaged beyond repair, had done for centuries.
Rock was born in a vat just like these. The Count harvested eggs from donors and defeated combatants he found genetically ideal and created batches of children. He would grow them, train them, break them. Pit them against each other. One of Rock’s earliest memories was of his hands around his vat-brother’s throat, as The Count coached him to squeeze harder and close the carotid. Many died. Many more washed out and were discarded at orphanages around the world. Not Rock.
Instead he trained harder and was allowed to grow older, in a place like the one at the bottom of the Count’s lair. It was a circular arena, filled with sand and the memories of the fights it housed: hair, teeth, fragments of bone and long since dried blood. In the center, he was there.
The Count’s throne sat on a raised dais a few yards across, steel, arched frame supporting plush red leather cushions and the immense stature of the man upon it. Linked screens supported by an arm from the ceiling fed him information from the four corners of the earth, but they were already ascending, now beneath The Count’s focus. His eyes were already on Rock as the young man descended towards him.
“So nice of you to join me, Kenneth.” The Count of Combat’s voice was posh and trim, deep and old. He was much larger than when Rock had last seen him, his physique pushed beyond that of a bodybuilder and into the grotesque; thick bands of hypertrophic muscle covering every part of his body. His fingers were steepled, displaying the girth and definition of his carefully sculpted forearms.
“How dare you. Here? Here, of all places. You couldn’t just kill Saw, could you? You had to poison his dreams just like you poisoned him.” Rock’s fists shook, balled so hard his fingernails cut into his skin.
“Out with the suspicions before the salutations, I see. Are you still so incapable of withholding your indignation?” The Count lazed back, draping an arm over the side of the throne.
“I know you hated him. Hated both of us. Strived to destroy everything he ever built.” Rock stepped forward. It took everything in him to not leap across the arena and start striking. He’d break The Count’s nose first, wet his fists with the blood and set to dismantling him.
“Understand that my hatred is a privilege that the pair of you rarely enjoyed. It is a fine vintage, uncorked only for the most special occasions. For you now I feel only pity, which itself is unbecoming for a man of my status. For Saw? I search my heart and I can only find respect.” The Count stroked his chin as he spoke, eyes half lidded, watching Rock boil as though Rock was paint drying across the wall.
“This is your respect?” Rock spat. He swept his arm out to the lab behind them, the bastard products of The Count’s cruel science.
“You cannot become the kind of man Saw was without a love of challenge, boy. It was what bound us together, each of our spats pushing us farther, elevating our arts.” The Count sat forward and the corner of his mouth turned up. “Something you could not understand.”
“I’ve travelled the world challenging myself, challenging others. Now I’m here to challenge you and make you pay for what you did,” Rock said, assuming his stance. It was the traditional pose of lethwei, two hands forward, front leg slightly raised, all nine points prepared to strike.
“You insist on this notion,” The Count said, ignoring the challenge. He stretched, rotating thick shoulders the size of basketballs. “You actually believe I would stoop so low as to poison him?”
“Not much lower to stoop when you’re already scum,” Rock said. He didn’t move an inch, eyes locked onto The Count.
“A most audacious claim from a stripling. You must understand I am fundamentally disinterested in any victory my body cannot bring me on its own. Even if I were to abandon this philosophy, abandon everything I am…” The Count flexed his bicep as if his physique was proof of his point. “I have already conquered Saw to my satisfaction.”
“You never beat us,” Rock sneered.
“Our definitions of victory were never symmetrical. As a pair, you were adept at destroying my facilities, souring my best laid plans, but these objectives come and go as the tide. Immaterial across the span of my life. But our combat?” The Count smiled and leaned back in his chair, the reminiscence playing about his face.
Rock knew it was true. Every battle with the Count would end once they freed a hostage, destroyed his latest device or ruined his lab. They’d run off, secure in their victory, as Saw worked to heal damage that would be far beyond mortal on any other man. Even as a kid, fleeing from the wreckage of The Count’s lab, Rock would look back and see him making that smile, that same one he made now.
“If you were so satisfied, why even come back here? Why taunt me by showing up at the funeral?” Rock’s fists lowered a fraction.
“Might I not pay tribute to one of the greatest fighters of our time?” The Count tilted his head at Rock, something in his eye twinkled. “Saw was, in his way, a genius. He was one of the five greatest living martial artists, a God, if you will. Without him there is something of a hole in our pantheon. I must sort out the matter of succession. He left behind no heritor to be slotted easily into his place.”
“You're looking at him.” Rock thumped his chest. His travels had turned him from a sidekick into a warrior. He had learned from the very best in the world. Learned enough to shove The Count’s words back down his throat.
The Count laughed. “Only in your view. I cannot deny you would do well in the televised fighting championships. Or perhaps the grey brawls about the Docks of this hovel city would lionize you. But in my world you are a mewling kitten.”
“Your world?” Rock asked. Was he not a part of it? Was he not a product of The Count’s ‘world’? The cycle of violence Saw sought to stop, the one The Count perpetuated, the one Rock had risen above in sublime skill?
“One that does not concern itself with ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’, but with the art. The pursuit of strength, and the balance of the strong. The Chinese devised a brilliant system of five elements, each balancing the others. So too do we balance each other. I have been called The God of Metal for a century. Saw, the latest to bear the name God of Wood, was one of my opposites. Without him, our system threatens to fall into disarray,” The Count detailed. It sounded like bullshit, some pretentious justification for what he did, what he’d keep doing. Maybe Rock could keep him talking and he’d present an opportunity. Then Rock would eat him alive.
“Look. I'm not here to hear about your system or your values. I'm here to put the pieces together. If you truly didn’t do it… If you really respected him… Why don’t you solve it? Clear your name? We both know you could.” Rock said, beginning to circle The Count’s platform, searching for a clear opening in his guard.
“The problem does not interest me,” The Count said, waving off the suggestion. “It has its scintillating features, but once one considers all the actors and motivations at play, its solution becomes quite elementary.” Rock bit his lip, had to force his legs to keep moving through the sand and not leap at The Count to tear his throat out.
“And you’re not keen on sharing?” Rock said.
“I would not dream of depriving you the pleasure of working it out for yourself,” The Count said, staring right back at him, flashing that smile and bearing those teeth that now seemed like fangs.
“So why should I believe you?” Rock contested. The Count shrugged.
“Believe whatever brings you comfort, child. Why would I bother deceiving you?”
“So you don’t have to face me,” Rock growled. He felt like a lion stalking his prey, completely unaware. The Count had no idea how big the gap between them had become.
“Does the sun fear the challenge of a penlight?” The Count looked away, not dignifying Rock with a glance, consulting the buttons on the arm of his throne.
“I’m not just some kid you can chew up and spit out anymore.” Rock opened the utility belt’s third compartment and his hand closed around something hard and sharp. It was a Mountain shuriken in the shape of Saw’s logo, excellent for severing ropes or attacking from a distance. Rock palmed it and continued circling The Count.
The Count shook his head. “The boy I remember bears a shocking resemblance with the one before me now. You fear true challenges. You are only here before me now because you believe you can best me without difficulty. Your ability gives you great latitude, that devil’s brain I birthed you with. You learn so quickly I began to believe I had finally created a worthy successor. But you balk at depth, you scorn it. You convince yourself you have learned everything worth knowing and move on. This is what drove you into Saw’s arms… And out of them. Martial arts are a mountain. You think you have reached the top, but have only arrived at a plateau. You must summit the peaks to become their master,” The Count said. More self aggrandizing bullshit, it was all The Count could muster to fluff up his ego. In his rant, in his distraction with his damn chair, The Count presented Rock with his moment.
“I’ve become more than you could imagine.” Rock hurled the weapon at The Count’s head, hard enough to punch through his skull and destroy his brain.
But The Count’s hand snatched it clean out of the air.
“This is precisely my point,” The Count waved the shuriken and looked back at Rock. “You allow yourself to play around with these… Toys.” The Count squeezed it between his fingers, bending the hardened steel into a half moon shape. He discarded it and it clinked against the teeth littering the sand. “You lack purity. You have made no real advancement.” He rose finally from his throne, moving with a grace that belied his titanic form.
“If you insist on this course, perhaps you should witness just how far the distance between us is,” The Count said. He reached into the throne’s armrest and produced a syringe, glowing green in the chamber’s fluorescent lights.
“Poison?” Rock accused. Maybe it was the same he used on Saw. “I thought you were ‘above’ poisons.”
“I am, indeed… On others.” The Count depressed a button on the throne and it and the dais descended into the sands as The Count stepped off, bare feet padding closer to Rock.
“This is a custom neurotoxin of my design, based on the chemical structure of griseosporine.” The Count pressed the needle to the inside of his elbow. “It will suppress the speed of my neurotransmission, and reduce the energy efficiency of my metabolism. It will induce fatigue across my entire body and produce pronounced joint pain, as well as acute acidosis in every muscle group. My vision will begin to blur, and my decision making faculty will be hampered. In effect,” The Count said, smiling, “it may make you an appropriate match for me… If you are lucky.” He breathed deep and rolled his neck as the syringe’s liquid disappeared into his bloodstream.
This had to be a lie, too. Surely it was some steroid, some shot of adrenaline and artificial vigor. But it didn’t matter. The Count could take every advantage in the world, and Rock would still obliterate him. He’d give everything. For Saw. For himself.
Rock assumed his pose, and The Count did the same. The Count used baritsu, a custom art of his design, based on the English combination art bartitsu. These facts both Saw and The Count beat into Rock’s head. It was all encompassing: traditional bareknuckle boxing, jujitsu, judo, shaolin kung fu, even dambe and sambo, a style as eclectic as Rock’s. But The Count had rested on his laurels too long. His style, as everything about him, had become more about the inflation of his ego than his real skill. Even his stance showed it: two open palms, no guard to speak off, as if he was about to wrap his opponent in a hug, as though he believed no one would be able to hit him. Rock was fresher, smarter, deadlier.
To an outsider, they would appear to stand totally still for a half minute, watching each other. This was the first step of their combat, move and countermove. Reading the other, the subtle twitches of their muscle that would belie their intention. To move first would mean commitment, to open oneself to brutal punishment. But Rock could see The Count getting lost in the strategy of it, his eyes beginning to glaze as he read intention beyond intention beyond intention. Rock would keep it deathly simple.
He shot forward for a takedown. He would ground The Count and pound the big man into submission. Rock’s arms blasted forward for the hold, but The Count, eyes still fogged, stepped backwards. Rock stumbled and The Count’s leg moved at impossible speed. A heel slammed into the back of Rock’s skull and he hit the ground, mouth filling with earthy, iron-specked sand as stars flashed across his vision.
Rock rolled out of the way, sputtering sand, and threw his arms up to block, but no attack came. He looked up, eyes stinging, and saw The Count with hands lodged firmly in his pockets.
“Your foresight lacks refinement,” The Count said. He gestured at Rock with his chin. “You seek to prove your strength… Can you even prove to me I need to use my hands?”
“Prove this.” Rock slashed his leg across the sand and shot up a cloud of dust to hide his motion. He shot out of the dust like a missile, aiming both hands at The Count’s sternum. With enough force, he could stop The Count’s heart with one shot and end the fight before it truly started.
The Count sidestepped the blow by a fraction and pushed Rock’s knee with the tip of his foot, sending Rock spinning out of control, off-center from his target, unrooted from his base, pinwheeling to crash into the sand again.
“I can read the flow of your power without complication. It has little stability.” The Count stood over Rock, leering at him as he pushed back to his feet. “I see you have improved your grappling, learned new methods of striking… But you still know nothing of ‘principles’.”
Rock roared and leaped, throwing his knee up at The Count’s chest. The Count turned to drive his shoulder into the blow and deny its impact, but Rock’s real strike was coming from higher up. Every muscle from Rock’s waist to his straining neck worked in one motion to slam his forehead into The Count’s face. It was the ninth point of lethwei, the signature move of The Mountain: the Calder Cudgel. Rock felt The Count’s nose break against his skull, felt his own brain rattle around in his head. If he wasn’t concussed before, he was now.
Rock’s ears were ringing, and he swayed from side to side, but he was still up. But so was The Count. He stood as a statue, bleeding freely from the nose, eyes darkened from his brow.
“A clean hit,” The Count remarked. He pulled his hands from his pockets and pressed his thumb into his left nostril, and pushed a fountain of blood from the right. “It will be your last.”
Rock stepped in with a straight and The Count’s backhand cracked across his face.
“Be serious,” The Count chided. Rock went for a muay thai roundhouse, forcing his full bodyweight into his shin, enough to destroy legs or ribcages in one strike. The Count’s hand moved faster than Rock could perceive and he felt two finger tips against his knee, an electric feeling across his hips as his motion was arrested. What?
“There,” The Count said, “the ‘point of force’.” He met Rock’s eyes. “Are you beginning to understand?” The Count’s hand moved from Rock’s knee to his chin and smashed his head back.
Rock’s world was a pinprick of clear vision that everything else swam around, dominated by the severe lines of The Count’s face. He had to change the game. Maybe he could hide and then mount The Count, force him into a rear naked choke and submit him. Rock’s hands found the utility belt and selected a half dozen small spheres.
The smoke bombs exploded in Rock’s hands and a pall of smoke enveloped him. Tears ran down Rock’s face, from the pain in his head and the migraine fraying the edges of his mind or the stinging smoke he could not tell. With the smokescreen Rock could recover and --
Out of the smoke, The Count’s huge hand closed around Rock’s neck. “Don’t think I can only hit what I can see,” he said, resolving out of the gas, lifting Rock into the air one handed as his son squirmed.
“Hrk--” Rock thrashed and felt the rough thumb driving into his neck, pressing on his carotid. His vision was starting to swim. He had to get out fast. Rock used every muscle in his abdomen and jerked his whole body upwards, wrapping one leg across the Count’s torso and the other around his neck, forcing the huge man into an armbar, threatening to break his elbow. The grip loosened and Rock sucked in a breath. The Count dropped and slammed his full weight across his arm and into the sand, forcing the air out of Rock’s lungs. Rock felt the sand’s teeth and nail fragments dig bloody gashes into his back as his grip came loose and The Count pulled his arm free. It was a small miracle his spine hadn’t broken, that a wedge of bone hadn’t worked itself into a vertebrae.
“Get up,” The Count said. Could Rock even manage that much? Somehow he found his feet again, legs trembling.
“Attack!” The Count demanded. Every muscle in Rock’s body felt heavy. He raised his arm.
“Your striking is pitiful,” The Count said. Rock’s elbow rammed into The Count’s abdomen and bounced off, sending Rock stumbling. It was like hitting a tree. “The relationship between technique and power is exponential, boy. The majority of the strength lies in the approach of perfection. Observe.” The Count drew back his fist and Rock knew it would be too fast to dodge.
Rock threw up his left forearm to block the blow. It connected and he could feel The Count’s knuckles grind against his bone, fracturing his radius and pushing Rock yards back across the sand. The bruise appeared instantly, a black splotch from his wrist to his elbow. The arm was useless. Even rotating his wrist a degree sent waves of agony across Rock’s body.
“Every part of your body can be a weapon, not the crude instruments you flail about with. A hammer, a spear, a knife.” The Count’s hand lashed out and knuckles scraped over Rock’s forehead. A cut appeared and a curtain of blood dripped over Rock’s right eye. Rock threw a right blindly and The Count caught it. He twisted Rock’s arm backward. He drove his left knee into Rock’s side. Rock felt his ribs splinter, needles of bone poking into his lungs.
“Perhaps you are worthy of my hatred, boy.” The Count said. Rock laid on his back, struggling to breathe. Was he dying? The Count kicked his side again and Rock felt something in his chest give way and a rattle of air pushed out of his throat.
“A braggart, with nothing to show for all his vinegar.” The Count shoved his foot under Rock and rolled him across the sand, gathering a new collection of cuts and friction burns from the debris. The pain was already too intense for them to be anything but a pleasant distraction.
“A spoiled brat, suckling on the teat of his betters.” The Count pushed his face towards Rock, and spat a thick wad of phlegm between his eyes. This close, spittle burning in his eyes, Rock saw the sweat across The Count’s brow, the pale in his face. He really had taken that poison, and there was still nothing Rock would do to him.
Rock pushed his arm down, dragging jagged bone across the interior of his elbow. His fingers pried the face off the belt’s clasp. The panel fell away and revealed a dark, inlaid Mountain sigil. He pushed his screaming palm against it and the sigil came to life, pulsing through primary colors.
“No aid will come from this trinket. This facility exists within a faraday cage.” The Count shook his head. “I should strip it off you and beat you to death with it.”
“Kill me,” Rock croaked.
“But I won’t do you that dignity,” The Count ignored him. “You are not even worthy of death by combat. I’ll dispose of you with the other trash.” The Count of Combat’s savage hand closed around the nape of Rock’s neck, and dragged him like a newborn fighting for life as the cold closed in all around him.
He was vaguely aware of the smell of rotten food and discarded plastic, the feeling of a soft, jagged bed of waste beneath him. Then the rush of pneumatics and the feeling of warm sunlight across his broken, bleeding form. Then, darkness.
-The elevator pitch for The Count is “what if Sherlock Holmes, Nikola Tesla, and Yujiro Hanma were the same guy?”
-Spinning from the Holmes inspiration, I thought it would be cool if The Count used “baritsu”, an incorrectly transcribed martial art first called such by Arthur Conan Doyle. The story goes that ACD attended a seminar by Edward William Barton-Wright, demonstrating his style known as “bartitsu”, invented after Barton-Wright became one of the first known Englishmen to study juijitsu. But ACD incorrectly noted the art down as ‘baritsu’ before making it Holmes’ speciality, inadvertently making his misspelling the much more commonly understood name of the art.
-This is also where I say that Rock’s character and the lore of his world is an adaptation of a personal martial arts worldbuilding project I work on occasionally with a friend, based heavily on the underground martial arts scene seen in shows like Baki or Kengan Ashura. At the time of starting this sheet there was no concept of ‘Rock’ though, and really the firmest character was The Count of Combat. A very loose prototype of Saw existed as well as the ‘God of Wood’, who we had determined to be a lethwei expert with an unusual ability to bounce back from his brawls.
-The ‘Gods’ system The Count mentions is also a holdover from the aforementioned universe that I thought about cutting, but decided to leave in the flesh out the idea of extreme martial arts ability as a kind of superpower. At the moment only the Count and Saw’s positions as the Gods of Metal and Wood respectively have firm holders, leaving Fire, Water, and Earth open.
<"An old garbage disposal unit. I know that's the kind of thing you get your kicks from looking at, but this time of night?">
<"It just sounded like it would be an interesting call.">
Qing's eyes narrowed. He had deliberately not spoken Eve's name when the job came in. But he still seemed... His eyes suddenly widened.
<"You're unbelievable. I was getting crushed the other day trying to one-hand an air conditioning unit, screaming for you, and you don't hear a thing. But you can pick out a young woman's voice on a phone call from across the other side of the counter?">
<"I don't know what you're talking about.">
Qing pulled up short and sudden at some traffic lights, and just stared at his father. The lengthy silence applying almost as much pressure as an air conditioner on a tiring arm.
<"Those old garbage disposal units. Very interesting.">
Qing didn't take his eyes off the older man. He released the brake and let the van lurch another metre towards the stop line.
<"Very interesting. Waste lands on rotating plate. Then the design, it basically throws food against the blades in it's own construction until its small enough to filter through the unit. All in that one small motorised contrap--"> Bo Wen held his hands up, gesturing to the size of the device.
Qing still hadn't blinked. His face held no humour. He lurched the van further forward again, up to the stop line, adding weight to his silence.
Bo Wen stopped talking.
The lights turned green and the van passed through the intersection. It drove on, until Qing applied the indicator which ticked on through the now stark silence, as he pulled into the left lane to turn across traffic.
<"Well, for whatever it's worth, she sounded very nice...">
"I KNEW IT!!!" Qing exploded in English. He started rhythmically striking the steering wheel.
<"No! No! That's it! We get there, you don't talk! Not one word! In fact--! You don't even speak English!"> He pointed at his father.
"Li phu!" The all too common phrase came from Qing. "Absolutely ridiculous!"
He pulled to a stop across the road from the address he received in the text message.
Trying to dispel the rage he felt coursing through his body he held at the door before alerting the occupant to his presence.
Breathe in.
He knocked.
Breathe out.
F L O W S T A T E F L O W S T A T E
The pair piled back into the van.
This time it was Qing's turn to hear the weighty silence.
<"What?">
<"You should have told her you do qigong in the mornings.">
Qing sighed. <"Why? Why would I do that? Why would she care?">
<"Well because of her dancing. It would probably help her get limber.">
<"I'm sure she's limber enough already."> He turned the key in the ignition. Indicator on.
<"I know. I saw you looking.">
Qing froze, his neck had been mid-turn from checking for oncoming traffic before pulling out. His head snapped back to his father. The tips of his ears turned hot.
<"That's not--! I wa--"> He stopped when he saw the older man's toothy grin.
<"Why do I even respond? You're having far too much fun..."> He shook his head and went back to turning his head and concentrating on the road behind. "Li phu!"
He pulled the van out and after a few turns set the van's course back to Hudson.
<"I didn't ask before and I should have... Mrs Wing--">
<"Oh great, back onto Lian again..."> Qing shook his head and hunched over the wheel. He should have left the old man at home.
<"That's not what I was going to ask about. This man wih the sword... What exactly did Mrs Wing see?">
"Oh. Ohhh!" Fair enough, I guess. <"I see... She didn't see anything but some regular old kung fu.">
<"Really?"> His father was surprised.
<"Yes. This guy with the sword, he's really... really not very good.">
<"Well that's good, isn't it? All the sooner one of the heroes of the city should be able to take that sword from him and bring him down.">
Qing's mind returned to the thought of someone with power fantasies seizing the blade, as he did.
It chilled him to the bone.
You could chew the silence.
Bo Wen looked at his son.
<"I think I'll drive past; show you where it happened.">
Bo Wen murmured. Neither in agreement nor disapproval.
All signs of the earlier light drizzle were gone, and the lights blurred from the slight haze of the evening as the van motored on. Too late for dinner that night, the pair went through a drive-thru to keep their stomachs from turning monstrous.
<"I'll cook tomorrow."> The spoken promise, not certain if it was for his own sake or his father's. <"Should be an earlier night. Only have the drywall job."> He took a bite through some type of chicken burger.
Another non-committal murmur as the elder man ate his own wax-paper wrapped dinner.
<"I know you don't like it when I say so, but she really did seem like a nice girl.">
Qing sighed and decided to humour him for a few minutes whilst allowing the calories to replenish. <"Which?">
<"You know which."> Bo Wen replied.
<"No. I don't, Ba. Because I've never heard you refer to ANY girl, aged between twenty and thirty as ANYTHING other than 'a nice girl'.">
<"Only when they are!">
<"To you, they all are!" You said that about Carol!">
<"Well--">
<"She shut us down because we had an expired fire blanket! And she's nine years older than I am!">
<"Okay... she was a bit less of a nice girl... but she was still doing her job!">
<"I picked one up from a hardware store... everything else was compliant. She shut us down for seventy two hours because of the weekend and to get an inspector back in for something I fixed in minutes!">
<"You're gonna be a guang gun!">
Qing laughed and replied in English. "Ha Ha! That term has no power over me in this country old man!"
"Well it should! You think I come to this country if I knew son would be guang gun?" His english breaking heavily to keep up with the social switch in language.
"So you're saying that you would have stayed there and fucked around with the CCP if you had any idea that I'd be a bachelor. Sorry, lă obà, I'm not buying it. And like I said... there's nothing wrong with being single in this country. It's one of those 'Freedoms' you love so much about this place. Freedom of choice. There's no shame. No stigma."
"No! Is worse! Bride price is much less here! Often none!" Bo Wen emphatically replied.
"Geeeeeeeez... Don't say 'Bride Price', say 'Dowry', it sounds like traffick--" Qing winced away from his father's choice of words.
Bo Wen's eyes widened in realisation. "Not my fault! Is how word directly translates! You took it to English! Not fair!"
<"Well, great... now we all feel bad."> Qing thankfully returned the conversation to Wu, and the focus to eating, as he took a fistful of fries.
Qing picked through the fries in his free hand one at a time, whilst pushing the van on at a crawl into the night.
<"It was a back alley. Up near Phillips.">
<"You think he might still be there?"> Bo Wen asked, reaching his own hand into the bag for his own fist full of fries.
<"No chance. He was stirring when we left, so he should be long gone. Just a regular side kick. Winded him, sure. But he'd walk it off.">
<"Down there?!">
<"Nah, shouldn't be. Should be up ahead. Said 'Phillips'.">
<"Well there was a guy laying back there on top of bags of trash.">
One of Qing's brows raised. <"Well that at least fits the description. But it wasn't around here... and he was getting up.">
Qing started to wonder if he'd kicked him so hard one of his lungs collapsed on him when he tried to limp away.
No... I couldn't have. I didn't kick him that hard, surely. I just.. got him square in the solar plexus.
Still, even as he told himself he couldn't have possibly done the kind of damage to have left the swordsman in that kind of state, after staggering from the alley he left him in, he had circled the block and was approaching the same new alley in question a second time.
He pulled the parking brake one, and left the headlights shining towards the prone figure ahead on his bed of garbage.
<"Hold back."> Qing said.
Which did nothing to stop the old man right by his side as they both approached the badly injured man who wasn't moving.
<"You didn't--?">
<"Of course I didn't."> Qing said, realising that this was a different person altogether and trying to hide his relief behind an unconvincing non-chalance. <"If it was him, where's his sword? This wasn't me.">
<"Mount-ain..?"> Bo Wen uttered. Seeming to recognise the figure, but struggling with the names in his memory.
<"What--? That guy's already dead, isn't he? Didn't they have a big thing for him?"> Qing queried.
<"No. Not Mount-ain. His young fighting friend. What was his name? It's been years...">
Qing didn't have an answer. His father had always followed the exploits of the capes and cowls community far more than he had. He considered them 'an example of the best that the city, and the nation had to offer'.
It was him who had suggested he name his business 'Ace of Trades'. Qing went along with it and it worked, because it put him at the front of the phone book, for the last few precious months that people had continued to use phone books. He suspected he still got business out of it from older clientele who had stubbornly refused to throw theirs away.
<"Little Mount-ain..? No that's not it..."> Bo Wen still grappled with the name.
<"Hill-an?"> Qing offered.
<"Now don't be absurd... help me get him into the van. He pretty clearly needs medical help...">
8x Thank
