Tales of the Parodyverse

Underworld #2: A Chorus of Opening Eyes


Post By

Fin Fang Foom
Thu Jul 31, 2003 at 10:47:23 pm EST
[ New ] [ Tales of the Parodyverse ]

How can you see into my eyes
Like open doors
Leading you down into my core
Where I’ve become so numb
Without a soul
My spirit’s sleeping somewhere cold
Until you find it there
And lead it back home

Wake me up inside
Wake me up inside
Call my name and
Save me from the dark

Bid my blood to run
Before I come undone
Save me from the nothing I’ve become…

--Evanescence, “Bring Me To Life”

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

As soon as Captain Miller got out of his car, he knew he’d officially stepped in it.

Mornings were never pretty in Gothametropolis York. A sharp, pale dimness lit up the predawn city, showing everything with frigid accuracy. Shellshocked faces wandered the streets, still trying to recover from how they’d spent the last twelve hours. Stripped cars and graffiti and lots of broken bottles had appeared overnight. Some citizens were just now stumbling into their apartments, going to bed and wishing that last night had never happened. Entire newsstands had vanished. The downy grey cloud-cover was still present, but there was more fog and steam than rain. It was the morning after, with all the consequences kicking in, and there was no more darkness to hide the flaws.

But even by GMY standards, this was bad.

The street was covered with corpses. Bulletholes had spread like a rash across the walls of the surrounding buildings. Tiny rivers of blood ran into gutters, mixed with old, dirty rain. A burnt-out husk of a vehicle was in the process of falling apart, its ashen chunks collapsing in on each other. Despite a minor war having happened, and cops now stomping around, no-one was looking out their window. And nobody had looked last night, either. In many cities, minding your own business was the safe thing to do--but in GMY, it often seemed like having your head in the sand was the only way to stay sane.

There was no crime-scene tape, however; no reporters or cel phone calls. This was strictly an unofficial visit. The cops there were all from the 51st, all part of Miller’s inner circle…and they all had a secret to protect. Miller was amazed that it hadn’t gotten out yet, considering everyone that was in the loop. And he couldn’t believe that what should have been a manageable blackmail situation had snowballed out of control like this. This could be a career-killer for him, and he had to avoid that at all costs, if he was ever going to have a chance in politics.

Miller tried to step over the blood and the bodies. He wore his normal workday clothes--black pants and tie, a white shirt, his ancient grey trenchcoat. His brown hair was somewhat messy, as they’d called him while he was still in bed. That made two nights in a row that he hadn’t gotten a decent amount of sleep.

Some of the victims were skinheads, and others were ex-cops. Miller had asked the latter group to help out with the 51st’s little problem, as it was arguably their problem, too. He was getting a lot of angry stares from guys that had been friends with the ex-cops. Not that he cared--he had larger problems to deal with. It was obvious that some superhumans had done this: he’d seen conventional firefights on this scale, but this just couldn’t be one of them. The action had been close-range, and normal people wouldn’t have been able to avoid getting shot. If they were shooting from a distance, then yes, the fact that there were no bodies from the opposition would make sense…but their attackers had been right in the middle of it all.

A car door slammed, and Miller turned to see Kris Henner, who had just arrived. Kris was in her late twenties, with short, straight blonde hair. She wore bluejeans, a white sweater, and a long, navy coat. Miller had been in bed with her when they’d both gotten paged--he said he’d check it out, and would call her if they needed her to come. Needless to say, they had. She was one of the 51st’s best forensic scientists. And she was also his obligatory mistress--he didn’t really care, it had been her idea, so he was just going with the flow. His heart belonged to another.

She stood by him, surveying the damage. The wind and the rain picked up, and he jammed his hands in his pockets. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“It’s no prob.” She shielded her eyes, looking up at the sky. “Stupid rain’s washing away all my evidence…”

“Yeah, the whole thing sucks.”

“What happened here?”

Miller took a breath. “We had some of our former employees talk to these skinheads about keeping an eye out for the girl. Skinheads spotted her and called them in. But things got messy…we think maybe the skinheads wanted the reward money first. If you’re wondering--no, we didn’t find the girl or her kid. Well, they found her, but they couldn’t hold onto her. They ran into a little difficulty.”

“I’d say so.”

“We’re kinda in a rush, so let’s get that brain of yours going.”

Kris smiled at him. “We have any survivors?”

“Yeah, but they aren’t in any shape to talk. They’re being treated at one of our…special clinics.”

She nodded. Then, she walked from body to body, crouching and occasionally moving someone’s jacket or arm with a tiny pair of tongs. She examined bullet wounds and strange cuts, recreating last night in her mind. Then, she pointed, counted to herself, and tracked something with her finger. She shook her head, pointed again, and tracked in a new, more accurate route. Eventually, she had a very basic picture of what had happened.

“Skinheads and the cops got into it. Obviously interrupted. You’ve got three, maybe four superhumans. They didn’t arrive at the same time.”

“Who are we dealing with here?”

She led him over to one of the bodies, which had a thin, deep, rectangular cut. It looked like a slot that money would come out of. “I’ve seen dozens of these…razor-letter wound. Messenger.”

Miller cursed.

“And this guy…check out the marks on the back of his hand. Let me guess--you didn’t find a gun on him?”

“How’d you know?”

“Acid-shuriken. One of The Dark Knight’s favorite weapons. Doesn’t melt anything organic, but it can burn. His gun’s probably a puddle somewhere.”

“What about these guys with the bigger gunshot wounds?”

“Looks like some kind of explosive shells. Probably high-tech. Not Messenger’s style, and The Dark Knight doesn’t use a gun…so we’re dealing with somebody else. Maybe somebody new. But they all must’ve been in a hurry, because supers are hardly ever this obvious.”

Miller shook his head, trying to keep his panic muted. “This is horrible. This is--God. We’re all screwed. If they’re joining forces…”

“Are you kidding? This could be great! They finally screwed up--they killed ex-cops. We can probably get the army after them or something. And we can be the first to warn the big man about--”

Giving her a deadly serious look, Miller grabbed her upper arm, dragged her away from the crowd, and spoke to her in a rabid, hushed tone. “We do not want that kind of attention on this.”

“What, the public? No big deal.”

“I’m talking about the big man. We can’t have him asking questions about what we were doing here. If he finds out we know about his graveyard…”

She yanked her arm away, looking offended. “I know, I know.”

His tone was impatient and agitated. “I’ve got an important meeting today, I can’t worry about this crap. Look--here’s what we’ll do. We leave the skinheads and drag off everyone else. They’re living in a city that’s fifty or sixty percent non-white, so it won’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that they had a little political debate.”

“You aren’t kidding, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“How are you gonna explain all these dead ex-cops?”

“I’ll figure someth--oww!”

A cel phone literally fell out of the sky, hitting him in the head. Kris managed to catch it. Before either of them could say anything, it rang.

Miller gave it a questioning look, and then answered it. “Yeah?”

“You find my kid?”

He knew that voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Answer my question.”

Miller opened his mouth, and then closed it. His features brightened. “Yeah. Yeah, we found him.”

“It’s a him?”

“It’s a him.”

“When do you hand him over?”

“You know that place where we first met? There’s a boarded-up building a few blocks over. We’ll be there at noon. And I don’t want any conversation from you. We give you the kid, and it’s done.”

“Right.” He clicked off, and glanced at his lover. “I’ll need to borrow that brain of yours for another hour. Extra-credit time.”

Then, he threw the phone down a grate. Kris crossed her arms, watching as he did, and referring to what Miller had told him. “What was that supposed to be?”

“That…was me getting us out from under this freak.”


Underworld #2
Nightlifers, Act II
Played


A priest named Mayton had overseen the construction of the stone cathedral that would later become The Third Day Mission, and he’d possessed remarkable foresight. They were on the cusp of a new land, and given its resources and territory and their promise of power, he could see things getting complicated in the future. He predicted that this land would need a true sanctuary--a place for people to hide, when things got too dangerous. So, he’d called a secret meeting with a small contingent of builders, and instructed them to add a series of rooms beneath the main building. He called them the Catacombs. Since then, they’ve housed American revolutionaries, runaway slaves, Japanese-Americans during WWII, and battered, runaway wives, in times when divorce was much less common. As above-ground religion became more like the Pharisees from the time of Christ--concerned with legalism, control, and moral superiority--the Catacombs remained true to the earliest incarnation of Christianity, helping those who had been abandoned and rejected by the world.

There was a certain responsibility for whomever was in charge of the Catacombs, and Mallory Bell had inherited that responsibility. Her universe was black and fuzzy and warm, as she slowly came out of a deep exhaustion. She wasn’t entirely sure where she was, or how she’d gotten there. Mallory had neck-length red hair, and her emerald eyes fluttered open. Her left upper arm felt numb. She knew the smell and the stillness of the air--she was underneath Third Day, surrounded by stone-block walls. A little light was coming from the next room.

Mallory realized that she’d been sleeping on a black couch, covered by a dark plaid blanket. A low, wooden table was in front of the couch. She tried to push herself up, but her arm hurt, and her entire body felt drained. Then, the events of last night came back to her, and her face was alive with fear--not for herself, but for others. “Susie?!”

A cold, haunting voice answered her. It sounded neither alive or dead, and she couldn’t see the person that was talking--but his tone was slightly gravelly, which made him sound like Kiefer Sutherland. “Ms. Perez and her baby are fine. They’re in the next room, with my…colleagues.”

She visibly relaxed. Then, the fear hit. She painfully twisted her neck and body to find the lamp-switch--she knew there was a battery-powered lamp around somewhere--and it flicked on. A figure was standing in the shadows, and he’d stepped just out of range of the brightness, a moment before the lamp had been activated. Her eyes adjusted…she could make out a basic form. Thin, a cloak, and blank eyes. Without needing to ask, she knew who it was.

She’d heard some of the homeless people at Third Day talk about The Dark Knight, but she’d honestly never believed in him. Mallory knew that some vigilantes, like Messenger, were real…but she’d never seen anything that remotely resembled proof that he existed. Maybe he just wanted it that way.

Then, she noticed the bandaging and patch on her arm. She’d seen highly-skilled doctors and nurses at work before, but this had been expertly done. The patch’s material looked slightly futuristic.

“You were shot. But it was just a flesh wound--in and out. And you lost a little blood.”

Looking at the fixing-up job on her arm, she asked, “You did this?”

“Yes.”

She winced, forcing herself to partially sit up. The blanket drooped off of her. For the first time, she noticed that while she still wore her jeans, a black lace bra was all that covered her above the waist. The t-shirt she’d been shot in was draped over the back of the couch, a reddish-black stain covering one side.

The Dark Knight examined her dispassionately, scientifically, and she didn’t feel awkward. It was like being at the doctor’s--he was gauging her reflexes and breathing and how her skin tone hinted at her circulation. His voice was now more formal and detached.“I’m sorry--I had to take your shirt off to fully treat your injury.” Then, he held out a white button-down shirt. She sometimes slept in it. “I found this in your room upstairs. You shouldn’t try to pull anything over your head for a few days.”

“…right.” She took the shirt, and tried to put it on while half-sitting, half-lying down, which was harder than it looked.

While she was getting dressed, he said, “You don’t have to worry about being tracked. It was dark, and they were busy trying to kill us, so they weren’t really paying attention--I seriously doubt they noticed you. You left some blood at the scene, but, I used this.” He had a small, sleek metal tube in his hand, with an aerosol lid. “It’s an extremely powerful cleaner. They won’t know that anyone was bleeding there. And the rain helped. Also, I found and removed the bullet from a nearby wall.”

She hadn’t even thought of all that. “Um, thanks.” Then, she considered everything else that had happened. “Wow…thanks. I mean, for all of it.”

“If you’re wondering how I know about this place--I knew Mr. Porter. I sent him quite a few people to take care of.”

Mallory suddenly remembered her late boss talking about how he had a “friend” that helped him out. But she was embarrassed by how he kept expecting her to ask good questions, but she didn’t, so he had to do it for her. Also, she was creeped out by how this guy knew so much about their…

“…work. Oh, God,” she sighed, just remembering something. “I was putting off bills for tonight--for last night.”

“I noticed.”

She gave him a questioning look, and then glanced down at the table. The paperwork she’d had to do was all there, and all done. It was perfectly filled out, and even in what appeared to be her handwriting. Mallory looked at her bandage, the paperwork, and then at DK. “If you can cook, too, I think I’m in love.”

The Dark Knight didn’t respond to that. “We’ve learned more about what’s going on. If you can get up, we should probably join the others.”

Mallory propped herself up some more, prepared to get rid of the blanket (and checked to make sure she was indeed wearing pants), and then slowly stood up. “See? I’m fine.”

Unsurprisingly, she then proceeded to nearly fall over. DK caught her, but she managed to steady herself on her own, and took a few experimental steps. The detective backed off, and they walked into the next room.

Susie Perez was wrapped in a blanket, sitting on another black couch. Her face was bruised, and her black hair had been tied back in a ponytail. She was drinking tea. Her baby, Jake, was sleeping in a padded playpen. Mallory recognized Messenger, who was also sitting on the couch--brown hair, a black trenchcoat, rough-looking and unshaven. Still, he was almost smiling as he talked to Susie. But she couldn’t identify the man in the far corner of the room…black metallic armor covered his entire body, and two blank eyes were all that broke up the darkness. He was leaning against the space where two stone walls met, crossing his arms and looking generally defensive. His body was rigid and unmoving. This room was also dark, with shadows being thrown everywhere. Messenger glanced at DK and Mallory--or rather, the space between them--as they walked in, and got a vaguely intrigued look on his face.

For Mallory, it was extremely surreal. It was like being in the same room with a lot of Presidents or celebrities or general legends. Being around them, and being involved in this--despite the obvious danger--was actually broadening her horizons. She’d graduated from Harvard, she’d spent six months at a clinic in Africa, but this was even more powerful. She felt like she’d been missing out on another side of life.

Susie and Mallory hugged gently. Susie sat back down, and Mallory suddenly found herself sitting on a wooden chair--The Dark Knight had pushed it up behind her. Nothing if not chivalrous. Susie was somewhat excitable, her system still jerky with adrenaline.

Looking at Mallory, she said, “You aren’t gonna believe this--Tommy isn’t really Tommy. I mean, he is, but that isn’t his real name. He’s John--John something.”

“John Kell,” Michael McKinley said. His voice was quiet, but still electronically disguised.

“Kell? I’ve heard of him,” DK stated. He seemed wary of the man in the corner. “He used to be a superhuman mob enforcer, back in the seventies. Iron-hard skin, but a typical thug. He’s been out of the game for years.”

Mallory was clearly surprised. “Jake’s father is a…a supercriminal? Really?”

DK looked at Michael. “How did you know that?”

Michael said nothing.

The Dark Knight didn’t like this. He’d only met this individual a few hours earlier, and they were already taking him into their midst. But what did they really know about him? On the other hand, he’d worked with Messenger many times--that was why he’d asked him to stay in the room with Susie and the baby.

Not that Michael was in love with this situation…it felt like he had the biggest secret in the world, and spending a lot of time around the greatest detective in the world couldn’t be wise. He was anxious to leave, but he knew he had to stick around a little bit longer, to find out more.

Messenger sensed the tension, and changed the subject, as not to scare the civilians with even more conflict. There’d be time for a private discussion later. “Do either of you know why the cops are helping him so much?”

Susie shrugged. “He was kinda buddy-buddy with some cops--obviously crooked ones--but he didn’t seem to like ‘em that much. He knew them enough to make small talk, but that was about it.”

“The GMYPD would never make this kind of effort unless something was in it for them…or unless they were being forced to,” DK said calmly.

Messenger leaned forward. “Blackmail?”

DK nodded. “Probably against several people in the 51st. Kell must have something on them.”

“So what are your goals here?” Michael asked. “How did you get involved in this?”

Messenger answered first: “I’m doing a favor for a friend of a friend…of a friend. They asked me to keep an eye on Susie.”

Susie blinked, slightly stunned that some mysterious “friend” had asked someone to look out for her.

“I’ve been monitoring the GMYPD for some time--I saw that they were after Ms. Perez, so I decided to step in,” DK said. That was technically true…but he’d actually gotten involved when he learned of a possible threat against Third Day. And he could see that Mallory already sensed that.

Michael actually took a few steps forward, lowering his arms. His tone was matter-of-fact and casual. “I’m just here to kill Kell. He got away with something, a long time ago.”

Mallory and Susie both looked a bit worried. DK’s interest piqued. “Specifics.”

Again, Michael said nothing.

“It might be relevant to what’s going on,” DK said, with a quiet fierceness in his voice.

“He killed a girl named Jill Winters, in the late seventies. But the cops thought some serial killer did it.”

DK tapped into his near-photographic memory, which he’d used on a great deal of information about the force. “An officer named Sorella caught that serial killer. He’s now a Senator…and he had a childhood best friend who’s now a Captain at the 51st.”

Silence echoed in the Catacombs. Mallory rubbed her arm, and Susie checked on Jake.

“Well,” Messenger said, “Probably isn’t a coincidence.”

“Indeed,” The Dark Knight replied. He thought for a moment. “Tactics. For now, we should lay low and let things play out. The more moves they make, the more insight and evidence they give us. If this is blackmail, I think they’ll fight it, and the two sides will do some damage to each other. We’ll get back to work at nightfall. But we need someone to stay here, just in case.”

Messenger looked at DK and Michael. “I think I can do that.”

DK nodded. “If you need to go upstairs--camouflage jacket, black stocking cap, jeans, and workboots. Stomp on the jeans and the jacket for at least fifteen minutes, so they look lived-in. And don’t shave.”

“Do I ever?”

“We should also be gathering information.” Looking at Michael, DK asked, “Do you have any leads on where Kell might be? Any known associates, or other kinds of patterns?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have that info with me. And if I get close enough, the suit can hone in on him.”

DK nodded, liking what he heard. “When the time comes, we’ll meet up here and chase him down. But we’ll need him alive, for information.”

Michael didn’t make any promises.

Mallory glanced at DK. “What about you?”

“I’m going to do a little research.” He didn’t want to give specifics around Michael.

As their little conference was breaking up (Susie needed to get Jake into the crib, and Messenger needed to change), Mallory approached Michael. “What was your name, again? I mean, your superhero-name.”

“I don’t really have one.”

“So we just call you…‘hey, you, guy’?” She suddenly looked pleased with herself, and said, “Yeah, that’s it--‘Guy’!”

Despite the armored mask, she could feel him giving her a funny look. He left without saying anything.

Mallory and DK were now alone. The detective told her not to discuss this with anyone, and not to even hint about it. She put her hands on her hips and said “Obviously” a lot, reminding him that she’d been keeping the Catacombs secret for some time, now. He told her that if she saw anyone remotely suspicious, or if the cops came back, to tell Messenger. If she couldn’t find him, she should use this.

“Use what?”

He handed her a small, normal-looking keychain. It was the kind that had a tiny flashlight built in--a button was in the middle. “If you get into trouble, just press the other side of the button.”

Mallory suddenly had the suspicion that, even if she hadn’t been shot, and Susie hadn’t run away, he’d still been planning to give her this. But she said nothing, simply smiling.

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

John Kell was still amazed at how quickly heaven could turn into hell.

It was a little before the lunch hour in Gothametropolis York. Many employees were standing in their store’s deep doorways, smoking and watching the light drizzle. A wide variety of couples met up in diners and fast-food places, squeezing in some together-time before they had to go back to work. Some old men were sitting on a sheltered stoop, listening to a monotone baseball game on a fuzzy radio. A man in a large tan truck had pulled up to a furniture store’s loading dock, and was waving his clipboard angrily at the manager, because there was no-one to unload, and it was putting him behind schedule. Ten feet away, inside the storage bay, beefy men eating paper-bag lunches said something about union lunch rights and didn’t move an inch.

Kell had been walking these streets for almost thirty years, surrounded by muscle cars and cheap corner-stores. The city had aged badly, while he’d managed to keep himself in shape. John had shaved his head to hide the fact that he was getting a bald spot, and grown a goatee (brown, as his hair had been) to look younger. He currently wore black jeans and a blue, silver, and black GMY Sharks jersey. Kell was extraordinarily proud that he was often mistaken for being in his late thirties. The neighborhoods he passed through each brought about a set of memories for him--he’d lived an extremely active life, in his day. And he was tantalized by the idea that, within the hour, he’d make a huge step towards getting it all back.

He’d started out like anyone else…just another blue-collar, know-nothing kid from the Midwest, who thought the Big City would be his ticket to fame and fortune. Except in his case, that had technically been true. He started out doing physical labor jobs, which earned him the notice of small-time criminals who were looking for muscle. Kell had still been a teenager then, and even before coming to GMY, he’d led something of a rough-and-tumble life--so this was far from a new experience. He pulled his weight and did his share, as he had a strong work ethic.

Then, the big man himself came down from his ivory tower and asked Kell for a favor. They needed a volunteer for a scientific experiment, which might make him a superhuman. He was so awed and (relatively) naïve, he didn’t think about the danger. But it had worked, and Kell had become one of the big man’s primary enforcers. Those had been glorious years. He was a trusted knight for the man who owned the city, and something of a celebrity, as well. This had been back when 20th century nightlife was at its peak, before the fear of STDs had skyrocketed. He almost literally had a different woman every night, with repeat performances by the ones he liked. And they weren’t prostitutes--they never were. He prided himself in being able to win fair and square. Still, he’d stopped trying to remember their names around ’78. By then, he’d landed in jail a few times, but the lawyers had always gotten him out. It didn’t really matter; there was more money and sex than he knew what to do with. The city was his paradise.

And then there was Jill Winters. Kell was pretty sure he’d slept with her at one point, though they’d all started to look the same. They asked him to ace her, and he did it without a second thought. But then things got complicated. There was an investigation from outside the city, which the big man didn’t completely have control over. Kell had to go underground. He got a new identity, and a “lateral promotion” to being a bouncer. Just for a little bit, the big man had told him. Even after someone else had been blamed for the crime, he’d been forced to say in his new job. There were new superhuman assassins in the big man’s employ, sleeker and deadlier and vaguely ninja-like. Kell initially resisted his early retirement, but eventually gave in. He wasn’t even thirty yet. And he took some construction jobs on the side, just to feel like he wasn’t being lazy. The retirement money remained static, while the cost-of-living increased. Before he knew it, he was an over-the-hill nobody--and then, they’d simply fired him. Like he was just another bouncer.

Kell hadn’t been raised to talk about his feelings a lot. He hadn’t even realized that he was depressed until recently, as he found himself thinking more and more about his glory days. A simply fact hit him: he couldn’t go back to being normal. He needed to have everything he’d once had. Once you tasted that, everything else paled in comparison. Unable to help himself, he wasted his savings on “private parties”, trying to recreate his old lifestyle. Now broke, he knew he had to do something.

On a summer vacation, he’d managed to find the scientist that had changed him. Curiously, the scientist had also been looking for him, but the big man had said that Kell had vanished. Kell wanted a power-upgrade, so he could go out West--maybe to LA--and start over. He remembered feeling and looking younger when he’d first gotten zapped, and he hoped it would do it again. But he couldn’t get an upgrade unless there was another set of genes to draw from--genes that the procedure had manifested in. The old tech had been destroyed, so this was the only way. Kell had been the lone person it was used on, before it was trashed, so the last option was simple…he had to have a child.

He’d tried and tried and tried--but modern women were unfortunately smart about birth-control. Then, through sheer luck, he impregnated Susie Perez on their (and her) first try. But he hadn’t known that, then. He was keeping tabs on the other women he was trying with, and they kept moving away, which made it difficult. By the time he caught up with her, she’d also run off.

Now, Kell stood several blocks away from a boarded-up grocery store. His son--his future--was in there.

He had it all worked out in his head. First, he’d get (at least) titanium-hard skin, and strength to match. He’d take some horribly typical bodyguard and mercenary jobs in LA, just to build up his cash. With it, he’d get trained to be a ninja, a master thief, and all that crap. Also, he’d purchase some high-tech gadgetry. It’d make him more marketable. The rising-to-power part was easy; he’d done it before.

Kell cased the store. This part of the city was usually pretty lifeless, and there were hardly any cars around. No undercover-cop-looking people, either. The buildings were all just one or two stories, and most of the upper windows had been covered with cardboard or wood. He darted into an alley, scaled a fire escape, and took a look at the roof situation--all empty. Kell glanced at the taller buildings in the distance. He wasn’t worried about snipers…his main concern was that a small army was waiting around a corner. He acted like he was window-shopping in the neighboring buildings, looking to see if the store employees looked genuine. They all did.

He checked his watch--it was noon. It was time.

Crossing the street, he took in several wide looks, searching for last-minute surprises. The store’s front door was being jammed open by a broom, but he went around to the back. It was locked, and both the lock and the hinges snapped, as he gave the door a good push. He grabbed it before it hit the ground, as not to make noise.

Inside were rows and rows of empty shelves. A few mops laid on the floor, abandoned. He saw the back of a scrawny, black-haired cop. One of those baby-carrying carseats was on the floor next to him, with a blanket draped over it. He heard gurgling and baby-talk, muffled underneath.

The cop still hadn’t noticed he was there. Kell raised an eyebrow, amused. “Hey!”

“Gahh!” Suddenly shaky, the cop spun on his heels, nearly tripping over himself in the process. His uniform was rumpled and somewhat ill-fitting. He didn’t look like much of a cop, but then, that described most of the GMYPD.

“Well?” Kell asked. “Is that my kid?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what they told me.”

“What else did they tell you?”

The cop bit his upper lip. “Well, uh…they said it’s your birthday. They gave me fifty bucks to wear this stupid cop costume, and they said I’d get fifty afterwards. It’s some kinda prank. But don’t let on that I told, okay?”

Kell marched over and yanked the blanket off--which triggered the bomb.

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

The Catacombs were quiet. Its stale air remained thick and undisturbed, and except for a few halos of light coming from tall lamps, it was dark. Mother and child were both sleeping in the same room. As the Catacombs were virtually sealed off from the outside world, the pressure would change whenever one of the hidden doors would open. Ruffles dangling from beds would momentarily billow, candles flickered, and the air would shift. Footsteps echoed forever.

Aboveground, a steady stream of homeless people and volunteers went in and out of Third Day. The usual administration problems were coming up--the kitchen was running out of potatoes, Mr. Dwight was refusing to take his medication again, the last decent hand-vacuum broke, one of the teachers was running late, and some of the funders were wanting to take another tour, which would throw off their entire schedule.

After a night of being shot and not really sleeping, and then trying to singlehandedly manage a major charity organization for seven hours straight, Mallory needed a ten-minute break. The white shirt that DK had gotten her had proven to be awkward, so she’d switched to a tight, short-sleeved, fuzzy blue button-down shirt. She was having some Wheat Thins and water, which was her first meal of the day. (And everyone asked her how she stayed so thin.) Though she’d just been down there for a little while, she’d checked on Susie and Jake, but she was trying not to be obsessive-compulsive about it. While she was generally relaxed and easygoing, she was also a recovering mother hen.

She had a numbness-headache--it didn’t actively hurt, but she felt spacey and somewhat off-kilter--so she took some Advil. Mallory could only imagine what was going on up there. Of course, she had her pager on, but it seemed like whenever she turned her back, it all fell apart. But it didn’t stress her out: she was used to a high-pressure lifestyle, and she’d learned to find ways to avoid tension and enjoy things as they came. Admittedly, a selfish part of her hoped that Mr. Peterson would get better soon, so he could take back over…but no; with his kidney problems, he couldn’t handle all of it. It was up to her.

Mallory noticed a cardboard box sitting in a corner. She went to investigate, and found Messenger’s clothes. On an impulse, she took a look at his black trenchcoat--it was covered with all sorts of stains. And some of them were very unusual…

“The one that looks like Australia is from a vampire.”

She quickly turned around, extremely embarrassed. “Sorry, I--”

“It’s okay,” Messenger shrugged. The vigilante had followed DK’s clothing advice word-for-word, and now appeared to be just another homeless person. He seemed like the most easygoing and normal of the bunch--though that admittedly wasn’t saying much. Still, he was someone she could picture having a sane conversation with. “The one next to it is, uh…I think it’s fluid from a robot. Yeah. And there’s some blood from a lot of different genetic hybrids on there. Probably some aliens, too.”

Mallory looked impressed. “If you ever need money, you could sell this on eBay and make a fortune.”

“Huh. Hadn’t thought of that.” Then, “How’s your arm?”

“It’s okay.” She put the coat back down, and turned to face him. “So, um, is everything okay up there?”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen anything to worry about. No cops.”

Something occurred to her, and she used her index and middle fingers to point at her eyes. “Do you have, uh, special senses? Or whatever they’re called?”

“No. But I’m usually pretty good at knowing trouble when I see it.”

For some reason, she felt more comfortable around him, and her regular self started to surface. “What’s your story, anyway? I mean, I know it’s none of my business--don’t feel like you have to tell me, you obviously don’t--but I’m just curious. I barely know anything about you guys.”

He hesitated before saying, “I’m an angel. Or I used to be, anyway.”

“…wow.”

“It’s a long story.”

“That’s…geez. I’d heard a lot of stuff about you, but I wasn’t sure how much of it was true.”

Messenger seemed anxious to change the subject. “What about you? Don’t make me say it…”

“What?”

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She rolled her eyes. “I should’ve guessed.”

“You said something about going to Harvard?”

Mallory’s watch beeped, and she groaned. “I have to get back up there.”

“So give me the quick version.”

She seemed torn between staying down here and talking to someone who’d known God, and getting back to a role that desperately needed to be filled.

Getting a slightly evil look on his face, he said, “I’m just asking because DK wanted to know…for ‘reference purposes’.”

Mallory blinked. The arm with the watch fell limply, like it had been forgotten, and she started talking. “Well, uh. Rich family, super-sheltered life, blah blah blah. They sent me to private schools and I heard what they wanted me to hear. I got accepted at Harvard, and I was gonna grow up to be a good little businesswoman.

“Then, my uncle got AIDS. They already pretended he didn’t exist, because of…well, because of the way he got it. There was nobody to take care of him, and he was dying. I guess my conscience kicked in for the first time. Until then, I’d never been in a situation like that--my parents kept me away from all that. But, I lived with him for the last few months of his life. I had to leave school for a semester to do it, though.

“And when I went back…it wasn’t the same. It was just staring at papers and numbers. I hated it. After everything I’d seen, I couldn’t just turn around and pretend it didn’t exist. But I’d come this far, so I figured I might as well graduate. Then I started volunteering at clinics all over the world, and I loved it. So, here I am. Everyone says I’m overqualified--Harvard MBA, all that crap--but I think it’s perfect. My family kind of disowned me, but there you go.”

She then realized that she’d barely taken a breath when saying all that, and inhaled. Messenger looked slightly taken aback, both at the sheer volume of information and at the ease with which she’d opened up. But Mallory had never been that self-conscious or repressed--at least, not since she’d gotten away from her family.

“Is that enough? For the, um, reference?”

“Sure.”

“Good times.” She checked her watch. “And now I really have to go.” Mallory nodded towards the room with Susie and Jake in it. “Will you check in on them for me?”

“Absolutely.”

She left, and Messenger stood there for a few moments. Then, he chuckled. To no-one in particular, he said, “This is gonna be good.”

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

Stripes of rain ran into the newly-made hole in the ground. A complicated debris-waterfall had been created, as water hit what had been a ceiling beam, and then a shelf, and then a tipped-over shelf, and then the ash-covered floor. Tiny beams of grey light shone down into the remains of the basement, and two eyes opened.

John Kell wasn’t pleased. And he knew exactly what he was going to do about it--something far worse than mere violence…

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

The Imperial Hotel was like many buildings, in that it didn’t have a thirteenth floor--or at least, a floor labeled as such. If one were to look at the elevator controls, they’d see that it skipped from twelve to fourteen. On the building’s brownstone exterior, there was a statuesque crown moulding that wrapped around the space where a thirteenth floor might have been. And, true, the elevator did seem to take a bit longer in getting from floor twelve to floor fourteen. The building’s stairwell was kept locked at all times, though a fire-alarm would automatically unlock it--but even in there, no door to a possible thirteenth floor could be found. And the stairs between the twelfth and fourteenth floor were slightly longer and taller than most…but the rest of the stairs were roughly the same, as they’d been designed to compensate.

A low ceiling, old-style bar, and leather furniture could be found on the thirteenth floor. The lighting was hazy at best, and many men in suits milled about, drinking and killing time. Their tone was muted and reverential, like they didn’t want to be too loud. Near-silent conversations took place in round corner booths, and every once in a while, a new guest or two would wordlessly wander in through The Imperial’s private elevator. The quiet wasn’t because of the secret nature of the floor--no, it was soundproof, they were just respecting the people who often occupied the unseen rooms in the back.

This was, for all intents and purposes, a waiting area. All of these men had business with the man who ruled the city. They all worked for him, either directly or indirectly. That was not to say that he was present--he’d visited there, but very rarely. His lieutenants and representatives sat in those back rooms, expressing his will and acting as liasons. The big man’s actual location remained a mystery. Some said his home was a massive private jet, which only touched down to refuel every twenty-four hours, while he lived the rest of his life in the sky. Others spoke of mansions in the islands, or the south of France. Perhaps he had a bunker in the remote outback of Australia, or a military-like compound in some African or South American country, where he was friends with the dictator. A few claimed that he simply lived in a GMY skyscraper, and that they looked at his home every day without ever realizing it. Ninety percent of his employees--at least--had never even seen him.

Captain Miller was no different. He sat alone in a booth, tugging at his tie. It was hot in there. He wondered if they did that on purpose, to soften everyone up. It was well-known that the big man loved his psychological warfare, so it wasn’t improbable. The lighting, the waiting, the claustrophobic ceiling, the temperature…and what if there were cameras? It’d be foolish not to have them. Maybe his every move was being recorded.

He’d been looking forward to this appointment--he’d been trying to get it for over a year--but now, he was nervous. Even the news that Kell had been blown up hadn’t helped his stomach settle. What if they asked him about the skinheads? What if Kell had set up a thing where, if he didn’t contact someone every few hours, they’d send the secret graveyard info to the big man? What if someone in the 51st had leaked it? He hadn’t thought it through. He hadn’t thought it through at all…

Of course, the graveyard had been his worst mistake. It had come up in the course of an actual legit homicide investigation, and by the time they realized the truth--that it was the main burial ground for those who took on the mob in GMY--it had become a well-known thing among his inner circle. Keeping a lid on it had been near-impossible…maybe impossible, period. There was enough evidence there to seriously complicate the big man’s life, and for Miller, it was a volatile thing. If he knew they knew, there was no telling what he’d do.

The door to the proverbial inner sanctum opened, and the bar fell silent. Two people came through: a gorgeous Brazilian woman in blood-red lingerie, with her hair down to her waist, and a pale, shocked-looking man in a suit that was a size too big. He was clutching his briefcase against his chest like his life depended on it, and he looked like he was about to have a fear-induced heart attack.

Looking at Miller, the woman said, “Next.”

Reluctantly, Miller got up and followed her. Prostitutes were the big man’s secret weapon--they’d literally convinced innocent men to implicate themselves in death-penalty cases. Rumor was, they went to a special school that trained them in all forms of manipulation. They were his way of reminding his employees who truly controlled them.

The first time Miller had (very, very politely and subtly) mentioned about how he’d been waiting just a little while (twenty years) to be rewarded for his role in the Winters affair, an exotic British beauty had been sicced on him. He woke up in Tokyo a month later, covered in bruises and restraint-marks and begging for more, ready to sign over everything he owned to her. She was quite literally his god for several years. The woman had broken him down through a series of humiliations and sexual power-plays, repeatedly forcing him to admit whose servant he was--though that wasn’t the exact term she’d used. Needless to say, it had taken him quite a while to get his sense of dignity back. Even now, he was terrified to be asking again.

To his great relief, he was led into a room that didn’t have her in it. The woman with him called it the blue room--it was painted in a steel-blue color, with dark navy furniture and carpeting. An Asian-American man in an elegant grey suit sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, looking quite comfortable. He wore glasses, and appeared to be in his late twenties. A mug of water and a laptop were on a transparent table in-between the two chairs.

“Mr. Miller? I’m Mr. Baptiste. Please, be seated.” He didn’t get up or offer to shake hands. His voice had a sophisticated accent that Miller couldn’t quite identify.

“I really appreciate how you’re taking time to talk to me,” Miller said, diplomatically.

“Well, I’m sorry we can’t do it more often. But we have a lot to deal with. The so-called ‘authorities’, the superhumans, our rivals, our business interests, and trying to keep the organization running smoothly…it’s a lot to keep up with. There just isn’t enough time in the day.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“Please bear with me--we’re short-staffed today, and this isn’t my usual function. Most of the time, I spend all day in the Thinktank.”

Miller had heard of that…the big man’s organization’s structure was both a work of art and a brilliant invention, tailored and nurtured by the masterminds that comprised the Thinktank. Thanks to them, the organization was made of a combination of strength and flexibility, a key factor in making the GMY mob virtually unstoppable. Baptiste was part of an inner circle that the average crook never got close to.

“So, what do you need to talk about?”

Miller suspected that he already knew, but said it anyway. “You know about the Jill Winters case?”

“Of course. Ancient history now, but I know of it. We definitely appreciate how you helped us in that.”

“Well, I--back in the early eighties, Lynchpin told me that I’d only have to be a cop for a few more years, before I moved on to ‘bigger and better things’. His exact words.”

Baptiste’s features hardened, and Miller mentally winced. What had he said or done to elicit that response?

Choosing his words carefully, Baptiste said, “Before we go on…just listen. ‘Lynchpin’ doesn’t exist. Over a hundred GMY citizens--cops, politicians, major businessmen, and criminals with nothing to gain by lying--all testified in multiple Senate hearings that he’s just an urban legend. Just an easy way to put a single face to all the crime. And if you’ll remember, Mr. Flask was among the people that testified. They’ve made a lot of allegations about Mr. Flask, but none have been proven. So please, just say ‘Mr. Flask’.”

“Right, right. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“We just have to be careful about the semantics. All the lawsuits these days…one slip-up and everything could be misconstrued.”

In his mental lexicon, Miller replaced “Lynchpin” with “Flask”, though he still thought of him simply as the big man.

“But, getting back to the subject at hand. What bigger things did you have in mind?”

Miller’s heart was racing, and he tried not to grin or act visibly excited. This was it. “I was thinking of politics.”

Baptiste’s reaction was guarded. “Tell me more.”

“I have a lot of administrative experience, and I’m a pretty well-known local figure. Except for a few agitators, I have a great relationship with the media. I think I could offer a lot.”

“What about overcoming your connections with the GMYPD? Let’s be honest--for all the work we’ve done to give you a good image, people are suspicious. Unless you’ve done something to set yourself apart…”

“I have ,” Miller said, through gritted teeth. “But I agreed to cover it up. For the good of the organization.”

Baptiste didn’t reply to that.

“I’m not talking about anything big. I could start out locally, work my way up. I can be patient. I’ve been patient for decades.” He decided that last line was a bit too harsh, and added, “Don’t get me wrong--I’m happy where I am,” he lied. “I appreciate everything Mr. Flask has done for me. But I gave up a lot, and he said he’d give me something extra in return, and I know he’s a man of his word.”

“He is. That he is,” Baptiste said, distractedly.

Miller’s hope rose. Then, it was torpedoed.

“But you have to understand…we have people in place, that have been in place for years. In politics. As much as we want to help you, there’s no real reason for us to upset that. We’ve put in a lot of work to get them where they are. And with all due respect, it’s a little late for you to be starting a new career. The timeframe for this is a lengthy one, and we like a man to be in his fifties when he gets to where we want him. It’d just take too long. You’re much more useful to us where you are now.”

In the blue room on the thirteenth floor, Miller watched his life fall apart.

“We can give you an unofficial raise, and you could have your pick of women. We have an excellent batch this year--you should see what they’ve done with the Australians. Maybe you’d like a vacation home? Or more input on organizational policy decisions?”

Miller couldn’t think of anything to say. To his horror, he was nodding. It suddenly occurred to him that this man--this kid--hadn’t been in the organization as long as he had. And he was telling him what to do…

Baptiste pulled up his jacket sleeve, looking at his watch. “Well, time’s up. I’m glad we had this conversation. Jenna here will escort you out…no pun intended.”

The Brazilian woman returned, and gently, but firmly, grabbed his arm and yanked him onto his feet. He unwillingly walked backwards, out of the room.

“I think Mr. Miller has had a rough day,” Baptiste said, trying to hide a grin. “Why don’t you show him to the sauna? That should take his mind off all this…”

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

The basement of the 51st precinct was a quiet place--it housed the morgue, and storage areas for records and other things. The morgue and related facilities took up roughly half the floor, and it was definitely the more active half. They had a seemingly never-ending supply of dead bodies to look at, whereas the building’s occupants weren’t quite as faithful about doing their paperwork. In general, it showed up late or not at all. And most of the time, it arrived in bulk, giving the filing clerks only two atmospheres to work in--super-busy and super-bored.

It was currently the latter. Except for the two clerks on duty, no-one had come in or out all day. The main record room looked like a library, with rows of ridiculously long shelves. Cardboard boxes with removable lids lined those shelves. Also, file cabinets were jammed together throughout the room. The “desk” the clerks sat behind was surprisingly tall and large, like a hospital’s register. It was almost its own little room, and they could easily walk around in it. When the files weren’t being looked at, the vast majority of the room was dark--only the lights at the desk and a path of ceiling-lights to the door were active. And for The Dark Knight, that made things a lot easier.

He was disguised, of course--he wore a false face that had been designed to be average and forgettable, and GMYPD black-and-blues. Getting in had been easy, it was sneaking around that was slightly annoying. He was crouching, with his back pressed against the exterior of the desk. Behind him, he could hear the two female clerks making smalltalk. A fan was going, which helped--he moved noiselessly, but the less chances he took, the better. He was careful not to throw shadows. In his experience, deathly-bored people were easier to get past.

“I’m just saying--I remember a time when Xander was the male lead on Buffy.”

“Yeah, but there was always Angel…”

“Early on, he wasn’t there that much. But back then, Xander had something to do in every. Single. Episode. He wasn’t a one-joke guy. And I didn’t mind Angel, because he had a lot of good interaction with Xander. They both wanted Buffy and they didn’t really like each other, but it wasn’t like a typical love triangle or anything.”

The desk was a semi-circle, and DK made it around the curve. He watched their shadows, waiting for them to turn their heads…

“And then Angel left and I thought Xander would finally get his screentime back--but no. They had to go and introduce Riley. I kept praying that his character would get eaten by cannibals, but I think they’d take one bite and say, ‘I’m not eating this, it’s too bland’. And they kept making Xander more of a joke, and when Riley was finally gone, they had to try to make Spike into the male lead…yeah, fine, he was a big part of what saved season four. But they were trying to make him fill all these other roles that should’ve been Xander’s…”

“At least it’s off the air, so it can’t keep digging itself deeper. I used to love ER--this was back when they only had five or six main characters, so they had more room for the nurses and the other supporting characters. And the leads all got to have personality. For a tv show, I couldn’t believe how much characterization they packed in. But then they went crazy with new characters and they weren’t putting as much thought into ‘em…”

They then made slightly-panicked noises, as a fly or some kind of bug was buzzing around. DK heard a rolled-up magazine hitting the counter, and their shadows shifted. Without hesitation, he darted into the darkness, moving quicker than the vast majority of human eyes could follow. He didn’t have superhuman speed, but then, he didn’t need it. The human body--even/especially one that wasn’t technically alive--was capable of many surprising things, if one had the focus and willpower. Still, it wasn’t about speed…it was about physical and mental discipline, stealth, timing, and understanding the blinkrate of the average person.

He was much more comfortable, now. His eyes easily adjusted, and he could see even better than in the light. DK began searching for a certain date and department, while their conversation droned on. He’d noticed a change in their information-sharing policy at one point, and he suspected it could be related to the possible blackmail--maybe they’d found out something they didn’t want anyone to know about. Before he’d entered the basement, he’d taken a walk amongst the 51st’s personnel, sampling the mood. They seemed pensive and pressured, and confused as to certain requests that higher-ups were making. They’d been the ones doing the legwork, looking for Susie Perez. And their bosses kept acting more and more private…

Kell had to have something on them, and DK was going to find out what. So, he meticulously, methodically went through three months’ worth of paperwork--the month before the 51st became a bit more secretive, the month it had actually happened, and the month after that. Even with his speedreading, it took several hours. The clerks occasionally moved like they were going to go for the lightswitch or wander outside their desk, and he’d freeze. But most of the time, they remained planted in their seats, with their feet up and the fan going.

He discovered many other interesting bits of information in the process, which he photographed with a micro digicam, roughly a third of the size of a pen. As good as his memory was, he didn’t want to put all his faith in any one method of anything. This same philosophy had caused him to disguise himself as a homeless person and sneak into Third Day, several hours ago, to check on Mallory. He trusted Messenger, but it couldn’t hurt to be safe.

DK now thought about Mallory often, out of admiration and respect. She was a hard worker, compassionate, dedicated, she fought on another front in the same war…and in truth, he’d been watching her for some time. He didn’t bother telling himself it was just for security purposes--The Dark Knight didn’t believe in denial. He simply followed logic: given the commitments they both had, it either wasn’t possible at all, or it was barely possible, but it would require a distracting amount of effort. And neither could afford to waste effort. Armed with that knowledge, he knew that giving it any more thought (or what he hated most of all, angst) would be pointless and illogical.

He got into one of his zones. The pages were flipping by, his senses had the edge, he was gleaming more information on how a corrupt precinct worked and hid, he picked up on the personalities and agendas woven into the paperwork…it was very much zen. Then, he found it.

A committed, hard-working police force wouldn’t have been this sloppy. Thankfully, the GMYPD was neither. He’d noticed that, in many reports on a certain homicide, the paper had been physically cut off in odd places. Often, it was only half or two-thirds of a page. They’d been too lazy to retype it on less-suspicious paper. Obviously, they were hiding something, which didn’t take long to find.

On the blank back of one of the forms, there were two handwritten sentences: “Graveyard?” and “DNA says it’s J. Russell.” DK recognized the name--it was a friend of the murder victim in the case this paperwork covered. Russell had vanished, and the police were wondering if it was connected to their homicide. Naturally, they looked into it. But DK knew that word on the street was that Flask’s organization had killed Russell.

Just like that, it all came together. And he realized he was sitting on a goldmine.

Moving quickly, DK removed a small device and scanned the fingerprints from that piece of paper--it wasn’t a copy, luckily--and did the same to some of the other papers that had been cut off. He snapped a picture of the two sentences, in case he needed to compare handwriting samples. He was trying not to laugh; he could only imagine how terrifying it had to be, to find something that they were never supposed to have seen…

Then, he heard the clerks yelling about something.

They were excited and speaking quickly: he heard something about a fight, and shots having been fired. To his surprise, they both ran off, abandoning their post. Briefly tapping into his frequency-scanning earpiece, he caught a smattering of police frequencies. Strangely enough, the 51st had an intruder.

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

The shouting was actually drowning out the gunfire. A crowd had gathered in the 51st’s front lobby, watching the bald man with the burnt, torn-up clothing. He was trying to say something. Behind him, the door was smashed open, and there were fist-marks in the walls. Kell was pointing and mouthing words, but nothing came out. He looked extremely frustrated. Bullets were ricocheting off him. Most of the cops were watching it like it was a TV show, providing commentary and loudly talking over the action.

Some of the braver (or more foolish) officers ran up to him, trying to tackle him. He backhanded them into walls. Blood went everywhere. For some reason, he seemed a bit uncoordinated. His eyes had a wild look, like he’d been pushed too far. The only familiar movements his lips formed seemed to be “My son”.

An actual attack on the police was virtually unheard of in GMY--aside from the fact that they were extremely well-armed, everyone knew whose side they were on, and you just didn’t mess with the big man. That was why most of the cops weren’t that concerned about it…they knew he was digging his own grave. Then, some of their superiors were shouting at them to do something. They sighed, finally guilt-tripped into action. With that, they swarmed him.

Kell tipped over. The quarters were close, and there were a lot of bodies to deal with. As much as he hated to admit it, getting shot had hurt…they made bullets better, nowadays. It just reinforced his feeling of obsoletion. And in turn, that made him furious. He writhed madly underneath them, grabbing some of their guns and firing off shots.

They backed off, scattering, and giving him room to stand up. He quickly wasted the bullets in the guns, and then threw them, convinced that he didn’t need those things to be tough. After a few more failed attempts at speaking, he actually crossed over to the front desk and grabbed a pencil and paper. But his hands were shaking, far too much for him to write. He looked momentarily scared.

Miller’s mistress, Kris Henner, was in the room--and she knew what was happening to him. When Miller had asked her to work up that bomb, she’d suspected that they didn’t have enough explosives on-hand to kill him…so she’d laced it with a surprise. It was something of a nerve toxin, which would numb the vocal cords and disrupt fine motor skills. That way, even if he survived, he wouldn’t be able to communicate for days, giving them enough time to think of another plan.

Kell raged, smashing walls and throwing furniture. Some cops ducked, others got blindsided by objects too big to avoid. Bullets were still stinging him. He’d come here to scare them into thinking that he was ready to go public with his information, hopefully causing a scene in the process--and thus pressuring them into finding his kid for real. God help him, they were still his best chance, so he was stuck with them.

Suddenly inspired, Kell turned his back on them and found a blank section of wall. With his hand, he started making crude letters, dragging his fingers through the plaster. Several minutes--and what felt like several hundred bullets--later, the writing was on the wall. He’d thought about saying something about Miller, but no, he just wanted to hint and scare him, not blow the whole thing before he could get the job done. Instead, Kell put “Sorella Didn’t Catch”, referring to the Senator that had supposedly caught Winters’ killer, back in the day. Vague, but Miller would get his meaning.

He pointed at it, nodded firmly, mouthed “I still want my son” very slowly and clearly, ran out the door…and while everyone was distracted, an average-looking officer used a tiny pair of tweezers to pick up a strand of Kell’s torn shirt, which was slightly stained from some strange chemical.

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

“You look like a man with a lot of hard choices to make.”

Every few months, the various charity organizations involved in GMY threw a black-tie dinner, and some of Parodiopolis’ elite made a rare trek across the river. Security was tight and the mood was subdued, as many of them didn’t really want to go. And one of them was wearing something other than all-black for the first time in years…Michael McKinley, with his powerful grey eyes and dark red hair, sat at a table with people he didn’t know, lost in thought.

He looked up to see who was talking to him--it was a smiling black man in his early forties, with a goatee. “I’m Robert Olsen…I run Faithworks. I think we’ve met once before.”

Michael nodded absently, and they shook hands. KinLabs had donated a ton--literally--of medical supplies to Faithworks, which had been distributed to third-world countries.

Olsen pulled up a chair. “Are you here for the Twelve Labors Foundation?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“I’m not interrupting you, am I? Like I said, it looked like you were in deep-thought mode.”

“No, it’s okay. How are those supplies working for you?”

“They’re great, thanks. I know that there are a lot of directions you guys could go with your genetic research, and I’m glad that medicine is still one of your priorities. It’s nice to see someone with…” He seemed to be searching for a term. “…social responsibility, in the corporate world.”

“If you’d like to tell the media that I’m something other than dangerous, I wouldn’t complain at all,” Michael said, making his semi-annual joke.

“I wouldn’t be that worried about your image--I think people know what you’re really like.”

Michael tilted his head, took in a breath, and his eyes slightly widened, like he wasn’t so sure.

“But the media…it’s always sad to see people who are so judgmental.”

“…you said you’re from a religious group?”

“You aren’t the only one that has to deal with stereotypes.”

“Point.”

“We also run Third Day--have you heard of it?”

Michael was taken aback, but he tried to play it cool. “Yeah, I think I have.”

“You should meet the girl--well, the woman that’s in charge of that. She’s just a little older than you. Mallory Bell. I think you’d have a lot in common. You both inherited a lot of responsibility at a young age…”

Michael almost said that she wasn’t his type, but then he realized that he couldn’t exactly admit to having met her.

“Anyway--I just wanted to say, keep up the good work. I don’t know if you’re spiritual, or just a good person, or what, but we could use more like you.”

Olsen left, and Michael didn’t quite know how to take all that. He’d never been particularly religious, outside of the fact that he hoped Hell existed. The thought of his father being tortured for all eternity always made him laugh.

“Not quite behind-the-scenes, is it?”

One of the guys at the table was speaking to him. Michael didn’t recognize him, though. He looked bored, and spoke like he’d been killing time by pondering random things. Several empty wine glasses were also present.

“I mean, they bring us over here and put on a dinner, but we never get to see what it’s really like. They organize tours and stuff, but it’s all planned. It’s too bad. You know how it is…people act differently around us. Who knows what they’re really dealing with here? Remember in the fairy tales, the royalty would dress up like a commoner and go and walk amongst them or whatever? I can kinda see why they did that…”

Michael blinked. One of the servers came over--earlier, she’d asked him what kind of dessert he wanted, but he’d said he wasn’t sure. “Make a decision?”

He tapped the table thoughtfully, and then stopped. “Yeah. Yeah, I have…”

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

Miller stepped out of the Imperial, into the freezing downpour. From one hell into another.

He looked shaken up--the prostitutes had done a number on him, and at the moment, his willpower was far from its optimum. Despite the obvious sexual upside to that, he was glad to be out of there…but he wasn’t so glad to be going back to his shattered life. His hopes and dreams would remain trapped inside his head, never to exist beyond that boundary, and it was a horrible thing to experience.

But at least he didn’t have to worry about his own little Gordian knot, anymore. It was a question he’d never been able to come up with an answer to--a puzzle that had plagued his mind for decades. Namely, could it be possible to destroy Sorella’s career without also destroying his own? They were both tied to the Jill Winters murder, and revealing one truth would reveal the other. Admittedly, Sorella’s part in it had been unknowing, but it would still be a huge embarrassment. Miller had laid awake in bed at night, trying to think of a way out of the knot. Now that it was hopeless, he’d no longer have that problem--it was the only good side-effect he could think of, but it was something.

His scrambled cel rang, and he pulled it out of his trenchcoat, answering it. Normally, he’d step into an alley or something to get some privacy, but he didn’t care anymore. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Kris Henner said, intensity in her voice. “Kell is alive--he just tore up the precinct. He wrote ‘Sorella Didn’t Catch’ on the wall and tried to say that he wanted his son.”

Miller stopped in his tracks, horrified. This thing just kept snowballing and gaining visibility, which was a whole new chapter of his worst nightmare. “He wrote it on the wall ? Oh, God, he’s lost it…”

“No, it’s--it’s a long story. Just in case we didn’t kill him, I put some special chemicals in the bomb…the simple version is that he won’t be able to talk or write for at least seventy-two hours. One less thing to worry about.”

“I’m glad someone’s on top of things. But we’re gonna have to dodge a few dozen more bullets to get out of this alive.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, sighing. “Were there many witnesses?”

“Only everybody.”

“Dammit, dammit, dammit…”

“So it looks like he still wants us to find his kid. But you pulled everyone off that, right?”

“Yeah, he was--that idiot was supposed to be dead, so obviously, I didn’t think we’d need to find the brat.” Miller took a breath, but before he could continue ranting, his mind cleared up. It was like he was seeing his new situation for the first time, and he smiled. “Um, baby, I’ll call you back later. I think I have a way to get us out of this,” he lied, trying to make his voice sound depressed.

He closed the phone, and the obvious truth struck him: now that he had nothing left to lose, why not take Sorella down with him? Kell being alive wasn’t bad--it was great! Let him reveal his information to everyone. If Miller couldn’t have a political career, Sorella shouldn’t, either. The only reason he hadn’t done this before was out of a sense of career-preservation…and with that trashed, he was free to do something this crazy. By some twisted logic, Miller knew he now had the upper hand. He finally had freedom.

Suddenly, powerful headlights were approaching behind him. He turned to see a stretch limo. Limos were like the men-in-black of GMY--if they showed up, you were in trouble. Getting into one carried a very good chance of not getting out alive. That would be just his luck…he finally gets a great plan, and this happens.

One of the limo’s backdoors opened, and he saw Baptiste sitting inside, looking quite snug. “We need to talk. Get in.”

Miller hesitated…

One of the car’s front doors barely opened, and he could guess what they were going to do if he didn’t comply. He slid in the car, sitting on a seat facing Baptiste. The door slammed--presumably through some automatic program, Baptiste hadn’t closed it--and they took off.

Miller waited for him to ask about the skinheads, or where all those ex-cops had gone, or what Kell had done, or about the secret graveyard. One sentence could end his life. But at this point, his life wasn’t much of a life, and he felt strangely energized.

“I think I was a little too hasty before,” Baptiste said. “The more I thought about it, the more I can see you helping us out, politically.”

Miller literally had to keep his jaw from dropping.

“In fact, we can use you right now. But we’ll need you as a cop for one more night.”

Once again, Miller found himself automatically nodding…but he was slightly disgusted with himself. It felt like he was selling himself out, somehow. But he was getting what he wanted, so how could that be true?

“I’m assuming you’ve heard about what John Kell did to your precinct?”

The question stunned Miller, who tried to stutter out a reply. Was this all a trap? Did he know?

“What happened there is--well, it’s pretty obvious. It’s definitely blackmail.”

Miller could feel his heart racing. It was over, and he didn’t want it to be. He wanted to survive not out of a desire for life, but out of a desire to finally drag Sorella down to where he deserved to be.

“Bear with me--this sounds complicated, but it’s actually simple. This may come as a surprise to you, but, Mr. Flask and Senator Sorella have had a business relationship for decades. And unfortunately, Kell knows that Sorella didn’t really arrest Jill Winters’ killer. We think he’s trying to use it against him, and thus against the organization--we fired that super-moron, and he was definitely mad.” Miller looked confused, and Baptiste sighed, preparing to explain it. His voice took on a condescending tone. “I mean, if you want to get the Senator’s attention and you don’t want to go all the way up to the capital, you just go down to his old precinct, right?”

Miller just sat there, shell-shocked. His features took on a waxen, artificial sheen, like the life had been drained out of him.

“Anyway, we need you to step in and protect the Senator, by tracking down Kell. We’ll give you a hit-squad to use. And we know we can trust you, since you get something out of this staying quiet. If you help protect our political interests here, we can give you a position in that area…maybe even one under the Senator. That’d be a big step up for you.”

An electrifying mixture of emotions was swirling inside Miller. Shock, opportunism, anger, hope, pain, and an appreciation for the dumb luck that had caused them to misread the situation. But, he now looked at Sorella’s “heroism” in a new light. Had Sorella’s rise to power been orchestrated by the big man? Was Flask to blame for Miller losing Theresa? Had his entire life been played by one man?

Miller realized that words were coming out of his mouth. He was saying yes, he’d do whatever he could to help, and he couldn’t stop himself from talking. Mere minutes ago, he’d been ready to finally get his revenge on Sorella…but now he never could, because taking on Sorella meant taking on the big man. They were working for the same guy, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Baptiste shook his hand firmly. “I’m glad you’re on-board. Welcome to the upper echelon of the organization.”

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

It was night, but it felt like morning. They were getting things ready, preparing for what was to come. The baby had been put to bed early. Mallory had managed to squeeze in a quick nap, and gotten the evening’s work done ahead of time. She’d also grabbed a shower, and snuck some food down for Susie. Messenger was changing into his usual clothes. Mallory and Susie were then sitting around the Catacombs, waiting. It was all about to happen--they knew that much for certain.

Then, the air barely rushed, and a bell tolled. Two figures hovered on the edge of the darkness: Michael and The Dark Knight. Messenger also stepped out into the open. Somewhere in the building, an organ was being played, and a barely-audible gothic piece echoed.

Out of nowhere, Mallory was struck by the realization that she arguably had input in what they were about to do. It was a good feeling. A huge opportunity--not for her, but for the city--had been placed right in front of her, really. And that was something that she could do some good with. Keeping these three together could really turn things around in GMY…

“Things are moving fast, and we need to be faster,” DK said. He quickly explained the truth about Jill Winters’ murder, which he’d discovered earlier in the day. Then, “Miller and company tried to kill Kell, but it didn’t work. They did manage to hit him with a powerful poison. He was there to once again pressure them into finding Ms. Perez’ son. Needless to say, after his attempted murder, he questioned their dedication to that task. But Flask’s braintrust misinterpreted the situation--they think he’s trying to blackmail the Senator, not Miller. I overheard a hit-squad being authorized, which Miller has been given control over. They’re going after Kell tonight. Judging by my analysis of the poison, he can’t talk or write.”

“Sounds good to me,” Michael said, casually. “They kill him, we all live happily ever after.”

“With all due respect to Ms. Perez, her safety is no longer our only objective. I’ve discovered what else Kell has on the 51st--they stumbled across Flask’s secret graveyard. There’s enough evidence there to cripple his organization, at least on a legal level.”

Mallory looked upset. “Hang on, what about Susie? You aren’t just forgetting about her, are you?”

DK seemed to bristle, as if offended by the insinuation. “Of course not. I believe we can protect Ms. Perez from Kell and find this graveyard. But we’ll need to keep Kell alive long enough for him to tell us where it is.”

Michael scoffed. Everyone was wondering about the obvious question: if he can’t talk or write, how can he tell them where the graveyard is?

“Are we sure that Kell even knows where it is?” Messenger asked. “Or does he just know that Miller’s inner circle knows?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” DK admitted. “But we have to find out. And if they get to Kell before we do, Miller probably knows--but I’d rather have both to choose from, just to be safe.” Then, he stepped towards Michael. “If you kill Kell now, you’re helping Flask. The graveyard is just what I promised you last night--a bigger and better shot.”

After a moment, Michael simply nodded.

DK glanced at Susie. “But there’s some risk here. As long as Kell is on the loose, you’re still in danger.”

Mallory started to speak up again, but Susie put her hand on her arm, and said, “Hey, if you guys have to go after the greater good here, I’ll understand. You’ve already done so much for me…you have my blessing.”

“I have the info on Kell,” Michael stated. “Places he’s lived and spent a lot of time in, people he’s been arrested with, all of it.”

DK nodded. “Tactics. Even if we threatened him with death, I’m not sure that Miller would ever admit to knowing where the graveyard is--Flask’s punishment would be even worse. On the other hand, I think Kell wants to tell someone. So we intercept Kell before the hit-squad locates him. We’ll have to sabotage their search, in order to buy time. Our primary objectives are to gather information, ensure Ms. Perez’ safety by…resolving the Kell situation, and, if possible, bring the truth about Jill Winters to light. Objections?”

Silence. Messenger and Michael checked their guns.

“Let’s hit the streets.”

Continued…

All this time
I can’t believe I couldn’t see
Kept in the dark
But you were there in front of me
I’ve been sleeping
For a thousand years it seems
Got to open my eyes to everything…


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