Marc had finished the food and abandoned the tray somewhere around the immense mansion and was making his way down a hallway. After eating he’d received a note left on his bed, requesting he wear a full three-piece suit that was laid out for him on his bed by Samuels and meet him in the sitting room as his employer had left correspondence for him. Marc donned the suit fine, his days in the Marine corps had served him well for maintaining crisp presentation when it was called upon him to do so. But the clothes felt very foreign, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, borrowed.
He walked back into the sitting room and saw a folded letter sitting on the mantelpiece, beneath the familiar portrait of the bearded man and his wife. Perhaps this was the letter which had been left for him?
He picked it up and scanned through. No. This wasn’t for him. It was a monthly balance and holdings for the Steven Grant who l-- “Steven Grant. Maa Kheru.”
Samuels uttered the words from behind him and they whistled through his ears like the desert sands carried on bitter winds.
Once again his spine straightened. Eyes flickered. And he dropped to the floor in a seizure, his mouth agape.
Just then, as fate would have it, Marlene and Jean Paul were walking past the room to make for the pool. Marlene rushed over once more to tend to Marc and roll him to his side once more.“C’est pas vrai?!? Again? No more delays, Samuels. You will tell us now! What do you keep doing to him?”
In a space between places the man in white fell. He landed with a solid bump, despite the desert sands. He was in a perfectly white suit, tailored immaculately as if by the gods themselves. With an all white face as well, marked with a crescent on his forehead that denoted his patron, he was helped up from the sand by a man in desert camouflaged military fatigues, he dusted himself off and adjusted his suit. He began to walk.
The traveller in white walked the cosmic sands with the soldier until they came upon another. One with the head of a jackal took his hand.
And just as Khonshu would assist many in finding their path, the jackal-headed Anubis led the Traveller in the white suit and the Marine to exactly where they needed to be.
There were a set of scales with no marketplace. A ship which sailed the cosmic winds with an audience of deities. A beast. And the scribe.
Anubis walked to the scales and removed the pure white feather of Ma’at. He asked the Traveller in White for a request so politely that he could never refuse, and with permission granted, tore the Traveller’s head off and rested it on one side of the scales where the feather had once been.
Anubis called and Khonshu brought forth what had been requested.
It was a small doll dressed in a three-piece suit. It squirmed between the grasp of both gods’ touch. It ran on moralism and unrealistic conceptual ‘high-minded’ ideals. Highly critical, prone to whine. The Marine scowled. The headless man in white held him in reassurance.
Anubis held the doll at an arm’s distance. Ammut licked her crocodile lips.
Anubis dropped the doll onto the scales, and then set to work adjusting the scales.
The sides reached balance. Thoth nodded his ibis head to the god of death. He picked the head up off of the scales and threw it back to the Traveller in White. The soldier stepped in front and caught the head comfortably. He handed it to the man in white who held his forearm in thanks and gave the “OK” sign with his other hand. Anubis threw the doll to Khonshu who approached his avatar. His chosen one.
The Traveller re-attached his own head. To do otherwise would be impolite in the company of gods. Khonshu approached.
The god of the Moon grabbed the Traveller in White by the back of his head, his head snapped back as he screamed silently. His mouth opened from the god’s shockingly strong grip. The god held the figure above the Traveller’s gaping maw, the instant seemed to last for a minute. The fall seemed to last forever.
Steven Grant felt himself being consumed. He felt himself consume. He once again had form.
Steven Grant coughed, hacked and rolled onto one knee.
He turned to Samuels and nodded his head.“In truth, Mr DuChamp. I’m rebuilding your friend’s mind.”
The Frenchman and blonde looked at each other in shock.“And I’m not done yet.”
Flint drove his dark green BMW from the plaza down to Central with the video running through his mind.“They’re politicking this.”
The Superintendent himself gave the word on this, so the word was coming from the very top.
Flint furrowed his brow.
Maybe even City Hall.
Flint didn’t like the thought of that. The Superintendent was a role appointed by the Mayor’s office. Was this coming from the top brass down, putting the message in the the mouth of the man at the very top, so it held extra weight? Or was this coming from a Superintendent who was acting as a mouth-piece for the Mayoral office?
Hope said that it was police making police policy.
But Flint wasn’t a terribly hopeful man.
Was Chicago really going to allow itself to be a social experiment for the costumed vigilante justice?
Was this really all it took? A single crazed wild animal cutting a swathe through the city and they’d turn justice over to any wild card?