Tales of the Parodyverse

Underworld #1: Murder Echoes


Post By

Fin Fang Foom
Fri Jul 25, 2003 at 04:04:05 pm EST
[ New ] [ Tales of the Parodyverse ]

Midnight ronkers, city slickers
Gunmen and maniacs
All will feature on the freakshow
And I can’t do nothin’ ‘bout that, no
But if you hurt what’s mine
I’ll sure as hell retaliate

You can free the world
You can free my mind
Just as long as my baby’s
Safe from harm, tonight

--Massive Attack, “Safe From Harm”, Perfecto Mix

----------------------

At a little past midnight, Captain Miller found himself staring at a dead end.

He was surrounded by the rotting corpse of a city--Gothametropolis York. The buildings were all ashen grey or faded earthtones, and the majority of the neighborhoods had a washed-out sheen to them. Thick rain was pounding down, battering the alleys and streets. It made hollow, metallic sounds as it hit the streetlights and the beat-up newspaper machines. Sirens and rap could always be heard in the distance. The place reminded Miller of how easy it was to get frozen in an era…he had friends that were obsessed with the 70’s and 80’s, because they’d peaked then. It was easy to tell when GMY had reached its crescendo--at about the same time that gothic-industrial architecture had been in vogue. In the darkness, the city was a blocky, spiked silhouette, looming over everyone like an array of medieval torture devices.

Miller was a member of the GMYPD, which was far from the most respected police force in the world. He was in his late forties, with thinning brown hair and a weathered look to his face. Currently, he wore a white shirt, black slacks and a tie of the same color, and a grey trenchcoat. He was of average height and weight…and at times, he felt a little too average. But he knew that wasn’t true. And he had a plan to get out of here, once and for all, so he could prove it.

Unfortunately, his plan would have to wait a little longer--he was supposed to meet someone here, tonight. He’d been trapped in the trashy suburban nightmare that his wife called a home, when he received a call from someone who wouldn’t give their name…but they were more than willing to give someone else’s name. A name that no-one had any reason to talk to him about, unless they knew.

So Miller stomped out a cigarette--he hadn’t smoked in years, but he was nervous--and stood in the dead-end alley, with nothing to do but read a “No Loading After Midnight” sign. He couldn’t picture anything bigger than a Volvo fitting back there, though. He was out of the range of the streetlights, and the only brightness came from a dying neon sign on top of one of the buildings. The rain was coming down at a slight angle, and he found that if he stood to the left, a brown-bricked building’s roof would block most of it. He shuddered, and flipped his coat’s collar up.

Then, he heard a motorcycle engine, and saw headlights approach and stop, just beyond the alley’s one exit. The engine cut out, and Miller touched his gun reassuringly, just to make sure it was still there.

A man walked into the alley. He was about the same age as Miller, but beefier and barrel-chested. He wore jeans, a white t-shirt, and a brown leather jacket. His scalp was shaved of all its hair, but he had a brown goatee, and a single earring. The man looked like a bouncer, or a biker.

In a gruff voice, the man said, “Miller?”

“Yeah.” Miller was trying, and failing, to recognize him. After a few seconds of silence, he decided to go for the playing-dumb route. “Why’d you call me? What’s this about Jill Winters?”

The man smiled a bit too naturally--he just didn’t look like the kind of person that smiled a lot. “You’re kidding, right?”

Miller was getting a bad feeling. He said nothing.

In an annoyingly light tone, the man said, “C’mon, man, everybody’s heard of her--she was a big Broadway star back in the seventies. She died just a few blocks from here, in…what, ’78, ’79?”

Trying to act confused and not at all intimidated (when he was very much the opposite), Miller asked, “So what?”

“Some serial killer got her, remember?”

Miller shrugged. “There were a lot of serial killers back then.”

“But that’s just the official story. Way I heard it, some mobbed-up superguy killed her.”

“Sounds like his problem, then. Maybe you should--”

“But some junior cop saw it go down, and he didn’t say nothin’. This was back when you-know-who was first setting up shop. He didn’t say nothin’ ‘cause they made a deal…”

Miller got ready to protest, and stopped. He crossed his arms. “What do you want?”

The man had a folded-up piece of notebook paper in his hand. He offered it to Miller. “I got a kid. I mean, I guess I do. The mom ran off before she had him--or her. I don’t know for sure. But she’s gotta be in the city...no money, nobody to go to. You find her, I don’t say anything.”

“If you know all this…then you know who I really work for. You sure you want to be exposing his stuff to the world?”

“Hey--until last week, I worked for the same guy, and I bet I know way more about him than you.” The man paused, trying to sound less defensive. “But you don’t wanna be a tattler. If you don’t come through, two things are gonna happen. First, I’ll go to the feds with this crap. And second, I’ll tell the big man about what you and your crew down at the 51st know. About his graveyard.”

Miller inadvertantly took a step back, finding himself pressed against the alley’s dead end.

“Yeah, you might be starting a new job as a coffin-filler if that gets out, huh?”

Ratting this guy out to the big man was now out of the question. Miller tried to regain his composure, straightening his tie and scratching his ear. “Well, uh…”

A split-second later, a gunshot rang out, and the man fell down. Miller nodded in the general direction of his official sniper. In the heat of the moment, he’d actually forgotten the signal they were using this time, so he’d tried several. Miller nudged the body with his foot, rolling him over. Right as he did, a powerful hand grabbed onto his ankle.

In seconds, the man was back on his feet, and Miller was being held upside-down. Several more bullets ricocheted off him, but he didn’t flinch. He’d fallen because of surprise, not injury. Miller finally recognized him…he’d seen this man kill Jill Winters.

“You try somethin’ like that again, and you’re gonna be missing an arm, okay?”

Miller nodded desperately, trying to remember what the “stop shooting” signal was.

“You get me my kid back. I don’t care what you have to do to the mom, but you don’t try anything stupid with my kid. Got that?”

Miller stuttered out a “Yeah.”

“You do that, and you’ll never see me again. I just want the kid before I get outta here.” The man dropped Miller, who barely kept himself from breaking his neck when he hit the ground. “I’ll be back in a few days. And you don’t wanna make me wait too long…I’m not a patient guy.”


Underworld #1
Nightlifers, Act I
D.O.A. in the USA


Morning came--such as it was. The only sign of it was the fact that the smothering layers of clouds were now a dingy silver, streaked with black, instead of vice-versa. Ancient 70’s and 80’s cars rumbled down the moisture-darkened streets. Painful sheets of rain were still coming down rhythmically. Stoplights on flimsy wires danced in the downpour, their colors blurring through the water.

A surprising number of sleek, modern, black-and-white police cruisers roamed the streets. They often slowed when passing a gang--though their definition of “gang” was extremely loose. If you weren’t white and you had a few friends with you, you might be a gang. Every few weeks, there was news that another person--black, Hispanic, Asian, occasionally white--had been viciously beaten to death by the GMYPD, or shot under suspicious circumstances. Every few weeks, there was a civilian hearing…and every few weeks, they ruled that it had been an accident, or that the police were well within their bounds. The “civilians” who ran the hearings were people who had significant business interests in the city, and lived abroad for most of the year. The cop cars were like sharks looking for prey…everyone knew whose will they truly represented.

The city had often been called the American version of the Gaza Strip. It was a setting for constant urban warfare, with several deaths a day. New York and LA averaged around eight or nine hundred murders a year, but GMY was threatening to top a thousand. And those were just the reported cases. Also, that wasn’t counting the “justified” killings that the cops did. But the people couldn’t do anything about it, thanks to a strange political shellgame. There was constant redistricting--every time a neighborhood was ready to vote for tougher crime laws or reform in the police department and city government, their zone was coincidentally divided up, and combined with other pre-existing zones. They went from being a majority in one area to being a minority in several areas. The pie just kept being divided differently, making democracy impotent.

Strictly speaking, there wasn’t much of a middle class in the city. Oh, the police officers technically qualified, not considering their under-the-table profits. But overall, there was a literally lethal drop-off between the haves and have-nots. And the have-nots were taxed extremely heavily. But instead of getting the money circulating back into the community, it remained tied up in the city’s government. While most police departments were underfunded, the GMYPD was overfunded--they had high-tech everything, and video games and pool tables in their rec rooms. Money that probably should have been spent on welfare and health care was instead used to put DVD players in cop cars. In human terms, money that could have been spent keeping thirty sick, malnourished babies alive was earmarked for more hot tubs in the officers’ gym.

Of course, there was one building that the police cruisers all avoided. It was very much art deco, and it was one of the city’s oldest, tallest skyscrapers. Like the city, the building had definitely seen better days. In the rain and the dim light, it looked bluish-grey. It was the headquarters of the GMY Squire, the city’s leading newspaper. The bottom line was that it was one of the few institutions left that hadn’t been corrupted. But it was also partially responsible for the city’s downfall…back in the teens and twenties, industrial plants and factories had been the lifeblood of this once blue-collar city. But they had horrible conditions, they overworked everyone, and they took and gave illegal payments. Once the truth got out, they were forced to close down, and the city began its descent into urban decay. This wasn’t helped by the suddenly-booming Parodiopolis across the river--the city’s middle class mostly moved there, going on to a better life. But many more were left behind…

The rain hadn’t let up. Just outside the Squire building, a thin man in bluejeans, a denim jacket, and a grey hooded sweatshirt (with the hood up) was casually running across the street, trying to get out of the rain. A black backpack was slung over the young man’s shoulder. He was used to bad conditions, and he was also one of the city’s best hopes. A jumping cadillac screaming Jamaican rap blurred by, slicing through the puddles. He tried to pull one of the building’s outdated glass doors open--it stuck, he cursed at it, he managed to get it open--and went inside.

He pulled his hood down, revealing straight, barely-long brown hair, which looked perpetually messy. It was threatening to hang down over his dark eyes. He had a narrow face, and tightly-controlled body-language. Greg Burch was one of the Squire’s best crime reporters, though he kept as low a profile as possible. He needed them all to believe that he was just another young, radical-minded journalist, like dozens of others at the Squire.

The front lobby had the ugliest tile floor in the Western Hemisphere--as did the rest of the building, unfortunately. But they weren’t there to look pretty. In fact, compared to journalism headquarters in Parodiopolis, they looked like a low-budget rock concert. While their counterparts across the river looked like catalog models, they were a bit more urban. Their receptionist had purple hair, a nose-ring, and never wore a shirt that wasn’t ragged on the bottom. A guy that sat across from Greg had his orange hair cut in cornrows, and his arms were covered in black snake tattoos. Goths were everywhere, many of the women didn’t seem to believe in bras, some wore stocking caps all year ‘round, and t-shirts describing creative uses for idiots and their anatomy were prevalent.

Greg walked to the nearest elevator--still broken, of course--and then headed for the stairs. It was a good excuse; he hated using the elevator, it just wasn’t a convenient place to fight his way out of, if need be. And he didn’t need the exercise…he’d been chasing modern-day slavers until four-thirty in the morning. After that, it was an hour of clean-up, two hours of sleep, a half-hour of meditation (he always came across many new facts during the course of his day and night, and he used his meditation-time to add them to his previous knowledge, in order to update his theories), and an hour over at LL mansion, providing better intel than any government organization ever could. He’d briefly relaxed by doing a little chemistry and microbiology. Such was the life of The Dark Knight.

A few minutes later, he’d arrived at the floor containing the city desk. And the office did have many desks, though they were all WWII-vintage metal ones, which looked liable to fall apart at any moment. They were arranged in rows, and the office wasn’t that full--most of the reporters were out on the streets. Sickly-colored flourescent lighting was everywhere.

Greg helped himself to the currently-empty main secretary’s desk, and dug his messages out from a drawer. He flipped through them--nothing important. Rain was striping the air outside the windows. Greg walked over to his desk, sat down, and grabbed a copy of today’s paper from someone else’s desk. He glanced at it, and speed-read the first few pages. A few of his DK missions were mentioned, but the GMPYD took credit for the captures. No surprise there…and he wasn’t complaining, either. They made it a lot easier to be an urban legend.

“The elusive Mr. Burch makes an appearance?”

Greg tried to act surprised--he’d sensed her and heard her several seconds earlier. Cora Eislen was a black girl in her mid-twenties, and she worked the crime beat along with Greg. Today, she wore bluejeans and a purple spaghetti-strap tanktop. Her hair was curly, and she wore it up. He couldn’t help but notice that her body-language was more relaxed, she was once again sporting the obsidian pendant her boyfriend had gotten her, and she’d worn the same jeans yesterday--which led him to believe that they were no longer fighting. Greg had many personas, and they were all centered around being observant and analytical. But he didn’t say anything, as not to draw suspicion. In fact, he didn’t say anything all, but she didn’t expect him to.

Just remembering something, she said, “Your last story on the gimps set off the idiot contingent in editorial. You might want to lie low until they find something new to be offended about.” “Gimps” was the local nickname for the GMYPD, for obvious reasons. They had tact about who they used it around, though.

Greg didn’t look up from his paper. “They aren’t happy? Attempting to care in three…two…one...”

“Where have you been the last few days?” It sounded a bit too demanding, and she tried to lighten it up by adding, “Out with your women?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Working on a story?”

“Yeah.”

“Done?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He then growled, like he’d read something he didn’t like.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He then stood up, took off his somewhat-wet jacket, and wrung it out over the chair of a moron.

Cora almost made a snappy comment…but compared to many other Squire employers, that behavior was tame. In her more paranoid moments, she almost believed that he rationed out the crazy things he did--like he was keeping up a reputation, without doing anything too noticeable.

Greg filled a cup of coffee, downed it, filled it again, and downed it again. Then, out of nowhere, he said, “I wouldn’t want to be a sell-out when the bad karma hits.”

An editor was approaching--he was the only guy in a room wearing a tie. He was in his fifties, with typical black-and-white work-clothes. His hair was black, but greying. Endless worry lines creased his forehead. He looked at Greg. “Got something for me?”

Greg pulled a hard-copy of an article out of his black backpack, which also had a laptop in it. “Facts are triple-checked.”

Cora snuck a look at it. It appeared to be about the lack of a federal law-enforcement presence in GMY…rumor was, not only had they given up on the city, but they were supposedly luring criminals there, so other states could gloat about reduced crime rates. Short of stopping them, they were settling for containing them.

Upon looking at the piece, the editor gave an appreciative nod. That was as close to a “Good job” as anyone ever got. “I know we talk a lot about keeping you guys out on the streets, but it wouldn’t hurt if you checked in a little more often.”

Greg blinked. “Does everyone miss my sunny disposition?”

Ignoring him, the editor glanced at both of them, and said, “The gim--the GMYPD’s holding a press conference this afternoon. About their new, uh, anti-corruption initiative.”

Greg snorted. Cora rolled her eyes.

“Any takers?”

“If I want to see denial, I’ll go to a psych ward,” Greg muttered.

The editor looked at Cora, who gave a hesitant shrug. Then, he said, “Maybe Rick’ll take it,” and walked off.

Cora sat down at her desk, and Greg flipped his laptop open. He plugged a single headphone-cord in, which went to one ear. A music program was going on the screen, but he was actually listening to last night’s cel phone intercepts.

The cops loved their expensive phones. He listened for about twenty minutes, wading through the various messages that his surveillance equipment and wiretaps had picked up. The night shift always killed time by calling each other. They were unfortunately careful on the phone, but he was noticing that a lot of guys from the 51st--one of the city’s most corrupt precincts--were talking about some big thing to do in the morning. It sounded like they’d be hitting homeless shelters, looking for someone. It was official work on the surface, so it was safe to talk about it. The vast majority of the city’s cops were bought off, but most of them were more spoiled and lazy than actively evil. So, if they were going out of their way to do something, it had to be important.

One shelter in particular was mentioned, several times. The Third Day Mission. Greg had known the man that had founded it, before he’d been killed in a drive-by. While many of the city’s churches toed the line--they preached sermons about blindly trusting authority, not believing the “rumors” about the GMYPD, and not “starting trouble” through civil or political action--Third Day was decidedly vocal in its condemnation of the city’s police tactics. They were on the same front lines that he was, and he viewed them as an ally.

And last night, he’d seen someone lurking around their building…a young Hispanic woman, with a baby. But the shelter’s current operator had snuck her in through an entrance that she thought no-one else knew about. Greg knew the ethnicity and the sex of the person the GMYPD was looking for (thanks to their creative use of slurs), so he knew it was time to step in.

Greg closed his laptop, and slipped it into his backpack. He loved rainy days--it gave him more darkness to work with. It meant he wouldn’t have to wait until sundown to start his investigations.

As he was just about to leave, Cora got his attention. He didn’t seem to have any friends, and she always went out of her way to talk to him. “Back to taking on the powers-that-be?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

----------------------

The Third Day Mission was located in the old-world neighborhood of Baxter, in the heart of GMY. It was a massive, stone cathedral, with a bell-tower rising up at each of its four corners. (Though only one still worked.) Locals simply called it The Mission, or 3-D. It was surrounded by buildings that had once been elegant and cutting-edge, and were now creepy and decrepit. Of course, some of them had gargoyles, while others had strange birds and sword-brandishing angels, or a line of warped faces that stretched around the top of the building. This section of the city hadn’t been designed with cars in mind, so they’d only managed to fit a two-lane street and cramped parking.

Inside, the sanctuary was the second-largest area. There was a huge, single room that had a concrete floor, stone walls, and wooden rafters in the vaulted ceiling. It was filled with a dozen rows of long, metal picnic-table-like seating. Homeless people filled those seats, eating food that was piled on flimsy trays. They ranged from teenagers to senior citizens, all wearing mismatched clothes. A few bulky men in jeans and sweatshirts walked around the room, keeping an eye on things. Some were volunteers, and others were security personnel that had been provided by the Bautista Foundation, who helped fund Third Day. The guards were a necessity--they were living in the middle of a war zone, and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise.

There were always classes going on. They gave free lessons on how to do basic carpentry, plumbing, painting…things that weren’t that hard to learn, and could be done to earn a little surviving money. Also, they had connections with many (legit) local businesses, who were always on the lookout for day-laborers. If you could pick something up and carry it around, you were hired. They had a surprisingly-good medical ward, with several full-time employees, and many medical professionals from both GMY and Parodiopolis volunteered their time. Third Day was a multidenominational operation, so they drew help from many different churches.

But the first thing that hit Officer Dimner was the smell. He just didn’t like it. While he was glad to be out of the rain, he could think of quite a few places he’d rather be. He and his partner were both wearing the standard black-and-blue uniform of the GMYPD, and they both had dark hair. They’d just stepped into the building, and they were already getting nervous stares from the homeless people. Reputation was a currency in GMY, and the cops carried quite a bit.

One of the plainclothes guards noticed him, and walked over. After getting one look at their uniforms, he seemed wary. “What do you want?”

Dimner dug a picture out of his back pocket. It was of a teenage Hispanic girl, smiling and standing in the overgrown front lawn of a falling-apart house. “Susie Perez. Seen her?”

He briefly studied the pic. “Nope.”

Dimner lowered the picture, but didn’t put it back in his pocket. “She isn’t in trouble or anything--we’re just looking for her. She’s missing.”

“Right.”

“Is there somebody in charge we could talk to?”

“Mallory Bell.” He pointed to one of the many crowds in the room, and Dimner didn’t see who he was pointing at, but he nodded and said “Thanks” anyway.

The two cops tried to make their way around all the unshaven people, looking for a person that didn’t look homeless. They found what looked like a college-aged volunteer, a girl in her early twenties, with neck-length, barely-curly red hair that was more full on the top than on the bottom. She wore bluejeans and a red “Harvard” sweatshirt that matched her hair. They couldn’t help but notice how she stood out from everyone else--not just because she was cleaner and younger, but because she actually looked happy and optimistic. The cops subtly waved to her, and she walked over.

“We’re looking for Mallory Bell.”

“You found her.”

The cops exchanged glances, surprised. “I thought that Mister--Mister Porter?--ran things here.”

Her posture sagged slightly. “He was killed a few months ago. Mr. Peterson took over, but he’s in the hospital with kidney problems, so I’m holding down the fort.”

The cops both muttered apologies and condolences. Then, they showed her the picture, and explained why they were there.

Mallory looked at the picture, looked at them, and looked at the picture again. Something wasn’t right. Unless the victim was white or wealthy, the cops couldn’t be bothered, and this girl clearly wasn’t either.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen her.” As casually as she could, she added, “But if you want to leave your precinct’s number…or the family’s number…”

Upon hearing the last part of that sentence, they got fairly flustered, and said that the family was too shook up to be bothered. She had to stop herself from smiling.

Ten feet away, a man in a camouflaged jacket and a baseball cap was having trouble setting his tray down on top of all the other ones. The people in line behind him were getting impatient. She quickly walked over, helped him, and then nodded to one of the guards. “I think Mr. Roberts here needs to go see our eye-doctor.” She smiled and handed the man off to the guard. The man started off on a half-coherent mini-rant about people, and how everything was getting harder…

While she did this, the cops were whispering to each other. “--screw this, let’s get outta here. We asked, we’re done.”

“Maybe we should check the building.”

“If you want any kinda decent lunch, we gotta get over to D’Orano’s now. You know how long the line can get.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Miller wants to be all mysterious with the details? Let him do the looking.”

A pause. Then, nodding towards Mallory, “Think she really went to Harvard?”

“What about Celia?”

“She’s--geez. She got super-uptight. I haven’t seen her in like a week. And her mother, god…”

“Is this chick a nun? Because they don’t all have the penguin-suits now. That’s what I saw on TV, anyway.”

Mallory walked back. “Okay, need anything else?”

“No, that should be it,” the other officer said. Officer Dimner was ready to go, but the other officer lingered. “But, uh, this must keep you going all the time. If you ever want to grab lunch away from here…”

“Sorry, I’m married to my work. Or at least living with it.”

The cops left, and she finally let herself breathe normally. Close calls weren’t her favorite thing…

-----------------------------

“Hey, what’re you doin’ there?”

On the first floor of one of GMY’s many run-down apartment buildings, a Korean-American girl--with short, wavy hair, khaki-colored cargo pants, and a high-sleeved blue shirt--was tugging at a padlocked door in a frustrated way. Graffiti covered the unpainted walls, and fast-food wrappers and empty pop and beer cans could be found on the floor. A single light was in the ceiling, protected by a thick grill.

The building’s manager stomped over to her. He was white, in his mid-forties, and almost completely bald. A stained white undershirt covered him, as did a pair of ancient grey sweatpants. “Unless you’re with the association, that’s off-limits.”

The girl sounded annoyed. “My grandma--my grandmother doesn’t have air conditioning up there.”

“It’s kinda wonky sometimes.”

She gave him a disbelieving look. “Last month, the water was off. The month before that, the power died every other day. In the winter, it’s the heat.”

Trying to act innocent, the manager said, “Well, maybe she should find somewhere else to move to.”

“I just--dammit. Why’s this locked? I want to see if everything is turned on right.”

“You don’t need to go in there.”

“I have to go back to college next week, and I want to make sure--”

“Look, everybody else was smart and moved out.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“You just--you just go back to college or whatever.”

“Hey, I’d love to get her out of this hellhole--she has enough to rent an apartment in Parodiopolis, but they want ten thousand up-front…”

The manager shrugged. It wasn’t his problem.

“I don’t like this.”

“Well, call the cops or something,” he laughed. But she was still trying to get in, and he tried to wrestle the lock away from her. “Hey, don’t try to--c’mon, gimme that. You can’t get in there.”

A new voice: “I’m with the complaints department.”

The manager didn’t look up; he was still focused on getting her away from the door. Upon hearing the other man, the girl said, “Finally!”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me, this girl is the one that’s tryin’ to break in here,” the manager stuttered nervously. Then, he was violently yanked away and lifted off his feet.

He looked down at a somewhat-unshaven man with short brown hair, a black trenchcoat, grey jeans, and a navy blue shirt. While he didn’t look that muscular or big, he was lifting the manager off the ground with one hand, without breaking a sweat. He was scowling.

“What is this? Who’re you supposed to be?”

“You watch the news?”

The manager still didn’t recognize him, but he was officially scared. “Hey, Kyle! Get out here!”

His thug-poser nephew, Kyle, walked out of a door down the hall. “What’s--who the f--” He pulled his gun out, and before he could finish what he was saying, a razor letter sliced the gun in half and sank into the wall.

Kyle looked at his gun, took exactly three steps backwards, closed the door, and locked it several times.

Both the manager and the girl now realized that they were dealing with Messenger. Legally, he was a vigilante, and he was a savior to many, but some claimed he was simply a serial killer that targeted criminals. Both sides of the law were after him.

Trying to sound apologetic, the manager said, “I, uh, I didn’t know it was you…”

Messenger pressed him against the wall even harder. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. For all the crap you’ve done to this girl’s grandmother, I’d say you owe her…oh, ten thousand bucks.” He looked at the girl. “That sound right to you?”

She gave a nervous nod.

While Messenger could simply play hero and scare this idiot off, someone obviously wanted the building…and they wouldn’t let one old woman stand in the way. Eventually, they’d get her. She’d be better off in Parodiopolis--and once the building was clear, he could torch the whole thing, ruining their little “investment”.

He dropped the manager, who landed painfully on his backside. “Someone’s paying you to chase these people off. Got the money in your apartment? And is it clean?”

The manager said nothing, more out of fear than greed.

Messenger turned so that one of his shimmering silver guns could be seen.

“Yeah, it’s clean. But I deposited it in my, uh, special account.”

“Got your checkbook in there?”

He nodded.

First, Messenger easily snapped the padlock off. Then, he grabbed the manager by the arm and dragged him over to his apartment. One shove pushed the entire door down. They vanished inside. A few minutes later, they returned, with check in hand.

Messenger jabbed a finger in the man’s face. “You--don’t do anything stupid. Or I’ll come back. And if it bounces, you’re a dead man.” The manager quickly went back into his apartment. Then, Messenger turned to the girl. “You got an account at the bank across the street?”

“An old one, yeah.”

“I’ll take you over.”

The door was just twenty feet away--they exited the building. Then, they went down the stoop, crossed the street, and she went into the old brick bank. Messenger found an alley to watch from. The rain had let up a bit, but there was more lightning, now. Motorcycle gangs rushed by. A black man in a pinstripe suit and gold chains, flanked by bodyguards, exited the bank. Dreadlocks-sporting bike messengers peeled around corners. A guy standing in the walkway of a boarded-up building hit on every woman that passed by.

It was an odd moment of peace. For Messenger, the last few years of his life had consisted of him going from crisis to crisis, just trying to survive. Underneath the violence and the vendettas, he was desperate to think of himself as a regular person. He simply wanted a normal life, where he wouldn’t keep getting pulled into insane situations. But unless people stopped trying to kill him every five minutes, he’d probably never get the chance. Thanks to the constant, lethal stimuli, he found that he never really had time to think…he consciously appreciated this current moment.

Then, he knew that someone was standing behind him, and he found himself dragged into the action once again.

In seconds, two gleaming silver automatics were pointed at his possible attacker--upon seeing who it was, he lowered his guns. “Trying to sneak up behind me isn’t the smartest idea in the world.”

“If I had the smartest idea in the world, I’d be getting rich off it in Hawaii.” Detective Stone was one of the very few honest cops in the GMYPD--but he was pretending to be one of the worst. As an undercover operative, he was a consummate actor. In truth, he suffered from Nice Guy Syndrome (i.e., “Let’s just be friends”), and he loved pretending to be a bad boy. He was in his mid-thirties, black, with a slightly darker shade of black stubble on his scalp, and a goatee. He wore bluejeans and a black leather jacket, which was zipped up. “Remember how you owe me?”

“For…?”

“For shooting the guy with the brown fur that was about to shoot you?”

“Werewolf?”

“Something like that,” he shrugged. “Anyway, a source of mine--she’s good people--well, she has a friend in trouble. Her friend got mixed up with some guy she met in a club, and now she can’t get away from him.”

“You just described half the women in the city. At least.”

“Susie Perez. Teenager. And she’s got a kid.”

“Is it the father that’s after her?”

“Yeah.”

“Why isn’t she with the friend?”

“Guy knew to look for her there.”

Messenger considered it. “You have any luck?”

“Kind of--but I have to keep it low-profile. My upstanding co-workers are looking for her, too.”

“That can’t be a good sign.”

“Exactly,” Stone said. He sighed, and instinctively checked over his shoulder. Messenger did the same. “And the guy after her…I don’t know much about him, but he isn’t rich, and he isn’t a cop, so I don’t know why they got into it. His name’s Tommy Brig. Some nobody bouncer at a cheap club.”

“Sounds like we’re looking at a side-effect of something bigger,” Messenger said. “Thanks for the info--I’ll look into it.”

Stone thanked him. “And hey…if you have to smack a few of my colleagues around to get some answers, go right ahead.”

-------------------

Captain Cal Miller often had trouble finding the energy--or at least, the desire--to get up in the morning. And it wasn’t just because he didn’t like his job. Many people hated their professions, but they had other things to live for. The problem was, Miller hadn’t just gotten the wrong job…he’d gotten the wrong life.

He’d grown up reading and seeing modern-day versions of morality plays; they always indicated that if you made a deal with the devil, you’d get what you wanted, but in a way you didn’t want it. Unfortunately, his own personal devil still hadn’t held up his end of the bargain. The terms had been simple enough, though the situation leading up to those terms remained a mystery to most. Back in the late seventies, stage starlet Jill Winters had slept with a dangerous guy, and then had the nerve to think she could dump him without any consequences. He was in business with the big man, and one of the organization’s first super-assassins had done the job. They’d made her death look like a serial killing--but Miller had seen the whole thing. With a word, he could have blown the lid off the whole thing.

Of course, he had a less-than-entirely-selfless reason to be a hero. The love triangle was now an ancient battle, but back then, it had been fiery and dramatic. Miller and a fellow rookie officer named Sorella had been competing for college student Theresa Reilly. They were all grandchildren of Irish and Italian immigrants, two nationalities that had been the backbone of the city’s blue-collar workforce. They’d grown up in the same neighborhood, becoming close friends. And by revealing the truth about Jill Winters’ killer, he’d become a city-wide--maybe even nation-wide--hero. With that accomplishment under his belt, his chances with Theresa would surely improve dramatically.

But he hadn’t done it. The big man had approached him--he told him that if he gave up this victory, he’d be given a much larger one in the future. Sorella had captured the serial killer who was supposedly responsible for Jill Winters’ death, and Theresa had fallen for him, and they’d later gotten married. But Miller was patient. Every year, they told him that he’d just have to be on the force for a little while longer, before he went on to bigger and better things. He knew his time would come.

Except it never did.

Relatively, he was successful. He oversaw the 51st, one of the big man’s most profitable precincts. He was moderately wealthy, and he had a great retirement to look forward to. Miller was married (to a woman he’d never loved and was no longer attracted to) with children (he didn’t want). His dreams laid beyond America’s private hell.

Miller sat in his office--a modern-looking place, with dark grey carpet and white walls--and opened a locked drawer in his desk. An issue of a major newsmagazine was inside. Senator Sorella was on the cover, with his wife. Even in her mid-forties, she still looked incredible. Sorella’s face looked fresher than Miller’s own…he’d climbed the ladder of legit success easily, after his triumph. He hadn’t been forced to suffer through a job and a life that was slowly eating away at his mind.

One belief held Miller’s universe together: The plan is still good. He’d eventually get brave and force the big man to cash his favor in, using his legendary influence to get into politics. He’d defeat Sorella at something and somehow steal Theresa back. It could still work.

But he could never tell anyone the truth--not just the truth about Jill Winters, not just the truth about him being corrupt, but the truth about how he’d grown to resent--no, how he’d grown to hate--the big man’s organization. He’d only gotten involved to get further with Theresa and his political career, and it was now holding him back.

Still, he wouldn’t let that superidiot wreck his plans. He’d told his inner circle that they were all being blackmailed about their knowledge of the graveyard--the big man’s private graveyard, which they weren’t supposed to know about--and left out the part about Jill Winters. Many of his detectives and officers were now out looking for the Perez girl. It wasn’t like they had anything else to do…the GMYPD had one of the worst case-closing records in the country, mainly because they were busy goofing off.

One of the remaining detectives knocked on the glass door, and Miller quickly slipped the magazine back in the drawer. “Come.”

It was Fleming. He had dark hair, a square jaw, a typical suit…he looked like all the other detectives. GMY cops tended to be oddly similar, Miller had noticed. Like the force was something that assimilated people and made them conform. On the occasions he wore his dress uniform, he found that he looked just like them, and it terrified him.

Fleming waved some file-folders. “Open-case rundown.”

“Hit me,” Miller said, trying to feign interest.

“The Jackson case--the shooting down on fourth, last week. Nothing with forensics, no good witnesses. He was black…it was probably a gang thing.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“How high a priority do you want?”

“Put it up on the shelf. We’ll get around to it when things calm down.” Translation: it’s too hard, we don’t really care, we give up.

“Okay, then there’s the Martins case. We’ve got some fibers with that, a footprint, and a witness.”

“Is that the one where Ronald Louis is a suspect?”

“Yeah, he’s already been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion.”

“Mmm. He’s a businessman, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“How sure are we about him? Are we a hundred percent?”

“No.”

“Well. Let’s back off. And isn’t that witness locked up for something, now?”

“Yeah, he is. He’s even got a cell to himself.”

“Well, let’s get him transferred near here. Maybe we can find a cellmate to keep him company.” Translation: Ronald Louis is hooked up with the big man, and we obviously can’t go after him, so let’s give the one witness against him a new cellmate with a history of violence and poor impulse-control, and see what happens.

“Okay. And finally, we have the Collins case. The black girl that claims she got raped by the councilman’s nephew, so she killed him in ‘self-defense’. But she’s on the run.”

“Doctors do a rape kit on her? Get any DNA?”

“Yeah, it, uh…it got lost in the mail.”

“Well, she’s obviously dangerous. We’ll want to handle her with extreme caution. If you’re in a situation where you’re about to arrest her, nobody will blame you if you’re…extra-careful.” Translation: things would be a lot more convenient if she was shot during an attempt to violently resist arrest.

Fleming shuffled the file folders, tapping them on the desk to get them straight. “I think that’s about it. How are we on the, um, Perez case?”

“If they’ve found her, they haven’t called it in.”

“What if they don’t find her? I don’t buy that she absolutely can’t leave the city.”

“Let’s put out some feelers with the gangs. Let ‘em know we’re offering a private reward for information leading to her cap--to her being found. We can get the money out of one of the slush funds the big man gave us.” Fleming nodded, and Miller looked thoughtful. “Still…the guy’s never seen his kid. Maybe we can find a substitute.”

“You really think we could pull something like that on him?”

“I know the guy’s blood type. Find a kid with that and about the right skin color, and there you go. Trust me, he isn’t a Mensa member…”

Fleming left Miller alone with his endless amounts of envy and bitterness. Faith in the idea that if he worked hard enough, he’d soon be out of here, was all that kept him going. And he’d go to the furthest extremes imaginable to destroy anyone that got in his way.

----------------------

He hadn’t moved in hours. The young man sat in silence and solitude, in a secret fortress that reeked of wealth and paranoia. It was almost pitch-black, lit only by a huge, single computer screen. He occupied a high-tech, high-backed metal throne, and he looked much too small for it. The complex was far underneath the bright city across the river--and while in it, he could feel, more clearly than ever, the secret that was pressing down on him. This buried universe of secrets and plans and darkness felt more real and natural to him than the surface world. It was here that Michael McKinley contemplated, watched, and waited.

Only his face could be seen--his dark red hair and pale skin. Once, this place had been a modern castle for Michael’s father, the late supercriminal known as Royale. He’d taken on a superhuman identity to protect and expand his own resources, albeit in covert ways. As such, he’d kept files on any possible threats to his empire…and Michael had access to some of these files. In what little spare time he had, he’d made a point to read through them. The information stretched all the way back to the early eighties--a time when superhumans had all but vanished from the public eye, but some still operated discreetly.

A non-humanoid robot rolled by…it looked like a computer tower on wheels. The small robot made this trip several times a day; it was delivering data. The technology in The Throneroom wasn’t hooked up to anything that could connect to the Internet, as protection against hackers. One independent computer constantly gathered news off the ‘net, and then uploaded it into the robot, which physically transported it to the main system. Royale had made sure there were no network connection between his systems and the outside world--he hadn’t believed in taking chances.

While Michael hated to admit it, it was smart. It made sense. Every day, he found himself increasingly respecting his father’s intelligence (if not his morality), and it made him want to throw up.

As usual, the new news was ordered in terms of relevance and keywords. Most of the results were expected--science- and business-related articles--but there was a strange finding from the GMY Squire’s site. It was barely two paragraphs, which meant it had probably been buried in the back of the paper. The piece talked about a man named Tommy Brig, who’d caused a “disturbance” at the All-Nite Club. He’d been a bouncer there, but he was let go. Apparently, he yelled at some customers and ranted about wanting to know where his child was. He left before the cops showed up…which was two hours later.

Tommy Brig’s name was the keyword. A large mouse-ball was built into the chair, and Michael clicked on the link. It took him to the bio of a man named John Kell, who was now going by the alias of Tommy Brig. He’d been a superhuman enforcer for the mob in the seventies, and was now hidden away in a low-visibility job. His skin had been made as hard as tempered iron by a procedure that had been cutting-edge at the time. In the sidebar, he saw his father’s typed personal notes: “Primitive science. Small-time, but important boss. Stupid cops still don’t know that he killed Jill Winters.”

Michael had read about that case in his Local History of Crime class, back in private school. And upon reading this new information, he immediately felt agitated. This guy had been walking around consequence-free for over twenty years. When he’d found out the truth about his father, he’d believed that the old man would suffer for all the things he’d done…but the elder McKinley had never been caught, and his death had been unfortunately quick. Michael knew that people who caused suffering didn’t necessarily get an equal amount in return. Things weren’t always fair.

But with a little help, they could be.

In the cold ground beneath the mansion--the mansion that Michael hated, because it had been bought by blood-money, and because it was the only place in the world where he was remotely safe--he passed judgment on John Kell. Eye for an eye. He’d give Jill Winters’ family something better than justice…he’d give them vengeance. Also, he’d save Kell’s child from having to grow up with a living supercriminal father. No-one deserved that.

Michael closed his eyes, just for a moment. He opened them.

“Armor.”

Neon yellow dashes began streaking across the walls, like the directional lights of an aircraft carrier. They flickered far into the distance, revealing the huge size of the room. Flashing blue sirens descended from the ceiling. Computer terminals came to life, whirring steadily. Dozens of security programs scanned Michael, triple-checking to ensure his identity.

He rose from the throne. Despite his lack of motion for the last few hours, Michael wasn’t stiff at all, thanks to his unique physiology. The room was reassembling itself around him. This would be the first time he took on a mission without being blackmailed by DuPlis; but, he felt strongly about it.

“Authorization-level: Prince. Username: Progeny. Password: Cynthia.”

A tall, wide cylinder filled with glowing blue liquid was slowly rotating, rising from the floor. The light from it shimmered around the room. It seemed that everything was orbiting madly. His other self floated in the cylinder, hooked up to tech-laden cords. He stared at it, and it stared back at him.

Darkness was coming. Wrath would be hitting the streets of Gothametropolis York within the hour.

---------------------

For GMY, night wasn’t just a time: it was a phenomenon.

Store owners locked up, and pulled thick security grilles down over their doors and windows. Last-minute grocery-shopping was done with haste and urgency, as to avoid being caught outside when the sun went down. The more timid citizens had stocked up on supplies and things to do, to tide themselves over until the morning. Sirens came more frequently. Cops and criminals alike roamed the streets, ready to do whatever they wanted. Unafraid, stoop-sitting pundits debated over what kind of night it would be, while drinking out of bottles in paper bags. The storm was strengthening, and rivers of lightning exploded in the sky.

The nocturnal crowd wandered out into the streets, blinking themselves to life. Most of the major party circuits were being reactivated. (They tended to die down at about noon the next day.) Neon signs--of the cheap and cheesy variety--were activated, advertising bars and nightclubs and strip joints. People who halfheartedly worked at go-nowhere jobs emerged, as the most important part of their life revolved around the club culture. Individuals on the lookout for sex , drugs, meaning, importance, and revenge punched in, sure that the city had what they needed.

While the city was mostly lawless, there were certain laws of nature that had to be followed, in order to survive. They were common sense for locals, and alien to everyone else. And, as Susie Perez ran down a shadowy street, she was breaking virtually all of them.

She hoped they wouldn’t recognize her. The dye was gone from her hair, it was now simply black and messy. Somehow, she’d managed to find a Lincoln High sweatshirt, when she actually went to Chesire. Of course, the baby kind of gave it away--but he was miraculously not crying, at the moment.

Susie was sick of being a burden. She felt like she was constantly leeching off others…her friend Carol, and Mallory, over at Third Day. No more of that. She was going to leave, once and for all. Of course, she hadn’t bothered telling Mallory--Susie knew she’d just try to talk her out of it. She’d left a note, though.

The last few days had been a whirlwind of events. Tommy had been avoiding her for almost a year--ever since she told him that she was pregnant. He hadn’t cared, then. Forty-eight hours ago, she’d nearly walked in on him while he was trashing her tiny new apartment, ranting about wanting “his” kid back. Needless to say, she hadn’t stuck around. She didn’t know what had made him change his mind. And just today, she’d found out that the cops were looking for her…though she didn’t know how, she was sure he was behind it. Susie was a fifteen-year-old mother who was now being stalked by the first and only man she’d ever had sex with, and it was messing with her head.

Her situation was made worse by the fact that several cop-looking guys had assembled directly in her path.

Before she knew what was happening, someone had grabbed little Jake away from her. He must have been hiding behind one of the parked cars on the street. Susie took a step to get her child back, and was punched in the face by one of the everyday-clothes-wearing cops, who had cleared the distance between them. She went down, hard, clutching her face.

A gang of skinheads came around the corner, looking like they expected something. The lead one asked, “Well? That her?”

“Yeah, it’s her.”

Jake started crying. The offduty or retired cop holding him looked like he didn’t know what to do.

The lead skinhead nodded. “We’d like the money now.”

“I--geez, what, you think I have it on me? We’ll get it to you,” said the cop who’d hit Susie. He seemed to be in charge.

“Hey, we--we spotted her for you. Pay up.”

The cop glared at him, and then turned away, looking at the guy holding Jake. “Can’t you stop that thing from making a racket?”

The other cop held Jake far away, like he was trying to keep a wild animal at bay. “Sorry, I don’t think they come with a mute button.”

Susie started to try to get up, and a few of them pulled weapons on her. She stayed where she was, but her eyes were blazing with anger.

The skinheads were having a conference. A few moments later, they all started moving closer. “We’d like to take the kid as a down-payment. Just to be safe.”

Taking a step back, the lead cop wagged a finger at them. “Hey--you mess with us, you mess with our boss. You don’t wanna get jammed up with that.”

“You work for a guy that’s sold out his own race…we’ll get around to taking care of him eventually.”

“Yeah, right. Are you delusional or just plain stupid?”

They traded some choice expletives, and then the shooting started.

----------------------

Mallory had been chasing Susie for the last twenty minutes. She simply wasn’t going to let her risk her life like this. Right as she turned a corner, she heard Susie’s voice cry out, and then Mallory was shot through the arm by a stray bullet.

Before she hit the ground, she had time to quickly ask God for help…

----------------------

So far, the plan wasn’t exactly working. Kell had been given his abilities in an era before “stealth genes” had existed, which prevented superhumans from being detected by technology that knew what kind of energy-pattern to look for--so Michael was able to track him, kind of. If he got within a half-mile, he’d know what general direction to go in. He’d gotten close a few times, but it wasn’t an exact match, and Kell kept slipping out of range.

Then, he locked onto the signal. Michael leapt from rooftop to rooftop, making it there in a matter of minutes, thanks to his enhanced speed and agility. Right as he arrived, his sensors were screaming at him about a heavily-armed group of people, on the street below. And it located Kell’s DNA--except it was in a baby that was seconds away from being caught in the crossfire.

Michael swandived off the roof, snatching the baby in mid-air and kicking the man holding him in the process. He barely had time to register a girl that was presumably the mother, who was dragging herself behind a car, for cover. Bullets were flying everywhere. Michael hunched over, wrapped his arms around the child, and turned his back to the gunfire, trying to protect it as best he could.

The skinheads and the cops looked at each other, looked at the imposing black-armored figure that was Michael, and started shooting at him. He was completely covered in lightweight, semi-invulnerable alloy, so he was safe…but the baby was greatly at risk. Michael was tempted to just jump out of the way, but that would leave the girl all alone. And his scanners had just noticed another woman, who was around the corner, and wounded.

Utilizing the fact that his sensors could act like eyes in the back of his head, he kept one arm wrapped around the child, drew his gun, and started firing backwards, without turning to see in a conventional way. He was picking them off one-by-one with high-grade explosive shells, but there were too many for him to fight while limited in this way…

A car passed through an intersection behind the battle, and its headlights illuminated someone, only for a split-second. It strobed a long shadow of a lone figure, holding a gun in each hand. Everyone but Michael panicked, and turned to see who it was--but it was too late.

Messenger leapt through the air, firing as he went. He hit the ground, rolled, and did a backflip that kicked someone in the jaw, while still shooting people with precision. Now in the midst of them, he elbowed, shot, spin-kicked, shot, dodged, shot, pistolwhipped, and shot, all with a grace that didn’t seem to go with his grizzled appearance.

Down the street, a pickup came to life, and he saw people sticking guns out of its windows. The skinheads were waving them on. Messenger whipped out a parcel bomb, and threw it. It hit the ground, slid underneath the truck, and detonated. He recognized the armored man, whom he’d met once before.

More skinheads were piling out of a nearby bar. Not good.

Michael was overcome with sheer rage--he felt a nuclear desire to kill them and save the three innocents, but he couldn’t do both at the same time. Restraint wasn’t his specialty, and having to hold back was devouring him.

Messenger kept blasting away at them, leaping through the air and ricocheting off walls, cars, streetlights, and more. He cannonballed and spun, never ceasing to fire. They were unloading a ton of ammo at him, but they just couldn’t connect. But he was mainly trying to draw fire away from Michael and the civilians.

But the new skinheads weren’t all armed--instead of being stupid and taking on Messenger, they were headed for Michael. And there was no way he could shoot all of them before they got there…

----------------------

The Dark Knight had roughly two seconds to understand what was happening, in order to act effectively.

He saw Messenger distracting them, and he saw a man in black armor trying to shield a baby. Susie Perez was hiding behind a car, and Mallory was unconscious and bleeding, around the corner. The cops he recognized, the skinheads he didn’t. DK had been tailing these men--some of the 51st’s former officers--who had been contacted by Miller earlier in the day; but he’d had to go five blocks west to stop an attempted mugging/rape.

Clad head to toe mostly in black, The Dark Knight carried himself with a terrifying air. The only other color in his advanced-kevlar uniform was dark orange--that was the color of the bands around his forearms and ankles (which had “stripes” of metal, like prison bars, so the black underneath could be seen), the outermost edge of his cloak, and the oval around his masked face. Two blank eyes were immersed in a circle of black.

Thinking quickly, he mentally calculated wind trajectory, who the best shooters were and who had the best line of fire (at both Michael and Messenger and Susie), and where they’d be standing and looking and firing within the next second. Then, he gripped three sickly-green shurikens in each hand, and let loose.

They sank into guns, dissolving into liquid and melting them on contact. Close-range, disorienting smoke bombs detonated within mere inches of the approaching, unarmed skinheads. His Knightstick ricocheted, hitting people in the head and the hands and the kneecaps with surgical accuracy.

He then allowed himself twenty seconds to help Mallory. She was barely conscious, and he landed next to her with catlike silence. He checked her wound, took minimalistic medical gear out, wiped the blood off, sprayed something on it, and slapped some kind of patch over her upper arm. With that, he propped her into a sitting position and left.

Then, he was nothing but a dark blur, swinging down and mugging people as he went. They smacked into walls and went flying into other ex-cops and skinheads. The Dark Knight didn’t fight angry--he calmly, methodically snapped wrists and elbows and shoulders, jabbed pressure points and nerve endings, and delivered focused attacks that could have smashed through wood or brick. He did all this quickly, sticking to the shadows, never anything more than a half-glimpsed silhouette.

Momentarily safe, Michael holstered his weapon, grabbed Susie, and fired off a grappling-cord from his wrist. They were pulled up to a roof, and he set both of them down. “Stay here and don’t move!”

He landed on the ground several seconds later, coming down on a pair of skinheads and nearly fracturing their skulls as he did. With a blatant disregard for everything that was going on around him, he simply started walking through the carnage. Bullets bounced off his suit. Some ex-cop tried to hit him with a flying tackle, but Michael braced himself, and it was like the guy had hit a wall. Before the guy fell to the ground, Michael grabbed him by the neck and dismissively flung him against the side of a van, which briefly rocked off its wheels. Then, he found who he was looking for.

The leader. The one that had punched out Susie Perez.

Michael shouted a general “Hey!” at everyone, his electronically-enhanced voice being heard over the violence. The guy somehow knew he was the one being yelled at, and looked over.

“Don’t hit women.”

He hadn’t even seen Michael draw his gun. His head was now a cloud of red and pink vapor.

Messenger was flinging razor letters, lodging them deeply in people’s bones. DK was now simply throwing cops and skinheads into each other, barely needing to move as he did--they were desperate and uncoordinated, and he was just shifting his body and taking half-steps here and there. Michael tore through them, gun in hand, leaving a trail of injured and dead bodies in his wake.

And then the skinheads were deciding it wasn’t worth the money and running off, and the ex-cops were alone and surrounded…

Liquid-metal rippled out of the Knightstick, forming a katana blade. Then, The Dark Knight tilted his head, like he heard something he didn’t like. “We’re about to have company.”

With that, sirens sounded in the distance.

“Then let’s finish ‘em off,” Michael said, with adrenaline still blasting through his system.

Messenger shook his head. “We don’t have time!” He glanced over his shoulder--at the roof with Susie and Jake on it, and at the corner that Mallory was behind.

DK nodded. Then, he looked squarely at Michael, and said, “I’ll give you another shot at them--a better shot. I promise. But we have other things to worry about.”

Michael holstered his weapon. “Fine.” Messenger and DK went to get the others, and he glared at the cowering cops. “But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

Continued…

Life is a mystery
Everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like home

When you call my name
It’s like a little prayer
I’m down on my knees
I wanna take you there

In the midnight hour
I can feel your power
Just like a prayer
You know I’ll take you there

--Madonna, “Like a Prayer”

Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*

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