Underworld #3: Blessed Are

Post By Fin Fang Foom Thu Aug 07, 2003 at 06:34:37 pm EST

[ New ] [ Tales of the Parodyverse ]

We move through miracle days
Spirit moves in mysterious ways
She moves with it
She moves with it
Lift my days, light up my nights

--U2, “Mysterious Ways”

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

Captain Miller knew that, one way or the other, it was all ending tonight.

In Gothametropolis York, quiet moments were like diamonds--rare, and to be treasured. But for Miller, the peace was anything but peaceful. It was past twelve, and only the bathroom light was on. The rain sounded like a thick avalanche. Through the windows, the world was a two-dimensional, black-and-neon blur. Steam from the shower was choking the apartment, trying and failing to find a way to escape. An answering machine wouldn’t stop flashing. Despite the storm, it was hot, and the air conditioner had just turned itself on--artificially-cool air began spilling out of it. Condensation was developing on the interior of the windows, and gravity dragged the drops down at an infuriatingly slow speed. These tiny details were a throbbing, painful rhythm in his mind. He wanted to get away from what his senses were reporting, so he could delude himself that he was no longer here…no longer trapped.

Miller had wrapped himself in a terrycloth robe, and then sank into a recliner. This was the apartment he kept in the city, not his family’s home, so he was alone. The shower had felt good. It was like his entire back had melted, and he was simply experiencing the joy of sitting. His toes dug into carpet, and he relaxed his neck, leaning back far more than usual. A dark green towel hung over his head. He’d only planned to sit and rest a moment, but he’d found that he couldn’t make himself get back up. Though he couldn’t see them at the moment, he knew that glowing red numbers told the time--he’d grown to hate that clock, it was suddenly moving far too fast--and he knew that he was supposed to meet the hit-squad in an hour. For now, he was content to sit in the dark, watching as his life went into a meltdown.

Part of him thought that he should be happy. Flask’s organization had offered him what he’d always wanted…a chance to get into politics. A chance to finally compete against Senator Sorella. Miller knew that if he’d been the one to break the Jill Winters case, way back when, he’d have been on the fast track to success; the one that married Theresa and became a Senator. And he could have done it, as he’d witnessed Winters’ murder…but Flask talked him into covering it up, and her death was blamed on a serial killer. Sorella caught that individual, and got what should’ve been Miller’s. But the big man promised an even greater success in the future, to make up for it. It had never come.

But Miller had gotten a lucky break--though at first, it had seemed like anything but. Jill Winters’ actual killer, supercriminal John Kell, had been blackmailing him about the Winters cover-up and the secret graveyard; and the big man’s people had misread the situation. They thought Kell was trying to blackmail Sorella, by revealing that his career was built on a victory that didn’t exist. (Oh, sure, capturing a serial killer would have been big, but capturing a serial killer that killed a beloved Broadway starlet was what made him famous.)

Now, Miller just had to do a simple favor to get into politics: track down Kell, so the organization could kill him…thus ending the threat (both real and imaginary) he posed. In one fell swoop, he could protect himself and propel his career. Looking at it like that, it seemed perfect.

But it wasn’t just about power and finally getting what he deserved--he wanted to take down Sorella. More than that, he wanted to humiliate him. To finally prove who the better man was. And, of course, to steal Theresa back in the process. But Sorella was in Flask’s pocket--which was why the big man was so anxious to keep his reputation clean. That simple fact threw everything off…he could never get revenge on someone protected by the big man. And his political job would be under Sorella, which was intolerable.

Sometimes, Miller thought that it was just his pride getting in the way of his life’s dream--other times, he felt desperate and pathetic, someone who would sell himself out to get half of what he wanted. His desires and his hates were all tangled up, and he couldn’t get them apart. Miller felt confused, pressured, and he knew the clock was ticking…

It was make-it-or-break-it time. In the decades he’d spent in this nightmare, Miller hadn’t been able to think of a way out of it--now it was more complicated, and he had under an hour to find the solution. The room felt much smaller. An idea was slowly forming in his mind, but it wasn’t the kind he needed…it was the realization that he might have to give something up, to get the rest of it. That made him want to throw up. In fact, he already had, several times.

The answering machine was still flashing. Miller suspected it was just his wife or his girlfriend, and he didn’t care. They weren’t his real life. His real life was something that hadn’t happened yet--but it would, once he’d found a way to work all this out. Despite the strong urge to simply run away and forget, he ran through many plans and scenarios in his brain. Logic told him that no situation was impossible. He picked apart the problems, looking for a way around them. Pulling the towel off his head, and running a hand through his brown hair, he saw that time was still draining away. Though he wasn’t physically moving, everything felt frenzied and frantic.

He tried not to think about the fact that what he did, in this moment, would determine what the rest of his life was like.

Was this what a psychological meltdown felt like? Part of him was ready to dive into security, and part of him was ready to do something crazy and risk everything. He had to think of a short-term goal. What could he realistically expect to get from this situation?

Then, he listened to himself, and shook his head. He couldn’t live with a mediocre victory. It was all or nothing, no matter what the cost.

His existence had devolved into a convoluted, jumbled mess of lies and agendas, and he was sick of it. Miller flicked on the lights, revealing his navy-and-white, ocean-themed apartment. Time to work. As self-help-ish as it sounded, he knew that he had to consider all the resources that he had, even the ones that seemed like problems. He began pacing all over the place, his body trying to keep up with his mind. The immediate issue was how to deal with the opportunity he had--Kell’s blackmail was no longer much of a problem.

He stripped away all the complexity and tried to look at it in a boiled-down light: the key obstacle was that Sorella was in bed with Flask. That was what poisoned the chance he was being given. If not for that, this whole thing would be perfect. But how could he screw up the alliance between the two of them? While he’d always wanted to inflict some poetic justice on Sorella, he’d be lucky to think of anything at--

--Miller nearly walked into a wall. He let out an embarrassingly high-pitched shriek of joy, and then spun around, trying to find his scrambled cel. Couch cushions went flying and chairs were looked under. It was on his kitchen table, with his wallet and watch and keys. The phone number he needed to call--which he hadn’t even thought of in years--was suddenly clearly-remembered in his mind. He dialed.

A male voice answered. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Miller said.

There was a pause, as the man apparently looked at his caller ID. “Should you be calling me?”

“I’m scrambled.”

“Oh, okay. What’s up?”

“I need you to do a job.” Miller was calling a “freelancer”, who had gotten arrested for breaking-and-entering in GMY--he’d helped him get out of the charges. The guy now lived in the state capital. “And I need it tonight. Within the hour.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not in the least.”

“What’s the address?”

Miller told him.

“…are you drunk?”

“Listen--I don’t want you to steal anything. I don’t want you to hurt anyone. I just want you to go in there and cover your tracks. No-one can know you were there.”

“Then what am I breaking in for?”

Miller told him that, too.

“Now I know you’re drunk.”

“If this is gonna work, you have to follow my instructions exactly. Okay?”

“Should I ask what this is about?”

“No. Just know that you’ll get rewarded. Big-time.”

“I’m assuming this isn’t something I can share with the guys.”

“If this isn’t secret, we’ll both get killed. Just saying.”

“After I do this--we’re even. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Miller beeped the phone off, glancing at the clock. There was just enough time to pull this off. To make this work, he’d have to get with his inner circle at the 51st (so they could get started on the “paperwork”), and work on a convincing lie. He knew he was pressing his luck, but it felt good. And he’d never loved irony as much as he did in this moment…


Underworld #3
Nightlifers, Act III
Race to the Graveyard


Something had changed in Gothametropolis York. It was a barely-noticeable thing, hidden in the midst of the city’s eight million citizens. Somewhere within its infinite tons of steel, concrete, and stone, something had shifted. It acted almost like a meme--it was spreading across the public’s consciousness, but in an invisible way. Random people were noticing slightly-odd details, and wondering about the devils behind them. Every city had a feel, a rhythm, and GMY’s was just barely out of synch.

Of course, it had started on the streets. A frightened-looking kid walked up to a bunch of other kids, told them something, and got reactions of disbelief and dismissal. He continued, describing it with his hands, and gradually won them over. They usually hung out on the stoop all night, but they were going home early. A few blocks away, a man in a trenchcoat was smoking and waiting. He’d been staring at a twenty-four-hour photo shop ever since the sun went down. His partner showed up, shaking his head. He didn’t like what he was hearing, and tonight just wasn’t the right night. In another part of town, semi-drunken nightclubbers stumbled across their friends, and told them some outrageous story that couldn’t possibly be true. A grandfather glanced out his window, noticing that a middle-aged drug-dealer was absent from his usual corner.

The information was filtering up. Cops--listening to 90’s rock and not responding to their dispatchers--were noticing tiny trends in tonight’s events, as they were called in over their radios. They absorbed a steady stream of crime-related facts every single day, but funny patterns were surfacing. While they were used to the work of lone vigilantes, what they were hearing didn’t quite match up. After it had gone on for an hour or two, more easily-worried officers grabbed their cels and called in on private lines, asking their superiors if something was going down tonight. (Such was often the case, and they’d developed dozens of methods to look the other way.) Their superiors said no, why would they think that? After getting enough calls and comparing notes over the coffeepot, their superiors began calling their superiors…

In one of the city’s more exclusive nightclubs, a well-known organization lieutenant was having a drink with some women he’d just met. Unfortunately, he was interrupted by his beeper…he came back agitated and short-tempered. Both the club’s patrons and personnel noticed his mood, and wondered what was going on. The truth was, the big man’s street-snitches were calling in like mad, claiming that crazy things were happening out there. And the cops were making noise, too. When he got a call from one of his bosses, they asked why he was so snappish, and he mentioned the reason in passing.

On the top floor of one of the city’s few modern skyscrapers, which contained the big man’s Thinktank, content individuals sat on plush couches, staring out at the best farm in the world. The products were the seed, and they reaped money by sowing them among the people. It was certainly a psychologically seasonal business--everyone was at their most susceptible, eventually--and they had to guard and nurture their land. They also viewed the city as modern-day alchemy, dangerous and addictive things could be turned into gold…in many instances, people were essentially paying the big man to kill them. And everyone wondered why they loved the business. But their revelry had been slightly spoiled--their finely-tuned minds were picking up on what was happening. For now, it was only a nagging suspicion, but it was enough to give them pause…

But not everyone was paying attention. A warehouse near the docks was transferring some cargo, and the process had taken hours--during this time, no calls could be made, as not to risk tipping anyone off. The place had a rotting, damp smell to it, and the light looked stale. A rusting, minimalistic catwalk wrapped around the square room. Men with uzis patrolled those walkways, looking down on the “cargo”. Bare feet stood on the filthy concrete; roughly a hundred people were crammed together on the main warehouse floor. They were gaunt men and women with dirty, torn clothing. Their heads were hung, darkness pooling in their eyesockets. They’d started out as illegal immigrants, then become kidnap victims, and were now about to end up as slave labor…though something worse was planned for the children. Jack Martinsdale had found that boatloads of illegals were the easiest to kidnap--the only people that missed them were other illegals, and they couldn’t risk revealing themselves to the authorities by calling it in.

Martinsdale was now in his fifties, with short white hair and a beard of the same color, but he looked energetic. He tended to wear clothes that made him look like a hunter--khaki, military-esque uniforms. The whip hanging from his belt wasn’t just for show. His official job description was “human resources coordinator”. Martinsdale surveyed the operation with a strict eye, allowing no room for errors or laziness. Outside, he could hear the trucks pulling into position. Once they were ready, the marching would begin--two single file lines, fifty to a truck. The trailers weren’t properly ventilated, but it was a minor concern.

The trucks’ engines cut off, which was odd, as it usually took longer for them to get lined up with the warehouse’s garage-style doors. Martinsdale and his men waited. Then, the lights went out.

An apprensive murmur came up from the illegals, and Martinsdale demanded silence in several languages. He then ordered one of his men to check the fusebox. One of them had a flashlight, and he started to go down a series of metal slats that were cheap imitations of stairs…as soon as he put his foot on the first one, the entire stairway went out from under him, and he hit the ground hard, breaking his leg. If the entire place hadn’t been suffocating with obsidian, they would have noticed that the metal was smoldering and melted where it had broken.

Martinsdale did his best not to act panicked about the fact that their only way down was now gone. He was kicking himself for cheaping out with the location--he was going to have to start paying more. But he loved the little challenges that went along with the job, so he didn’t really mind. Right as he was about to start shouting out more orders, he heard a metallic snapping noise. Then another. The catwalk jerked with each one. He remembered seeing the T-shaped support beams that held up the catwalk…they were underneath, at a forty-five-degree angle, going from the wall to the catwalk’s outermost edge.

Realizing what was happening, Martinsdale screamed for his men to grab onto one of the ladders that led to the roof. They scrambled, military-style boots on metal grilles. Seconds later, the four segments of the catwalk simply flopped down, bumping against all four walls. Martinsdale and the rest of his associates were hanging onto ladders, cursing and climbing up, trying to feel their way through the darkness.

Far below, squares of dim light appeared, and silhouettes were running through them. Someone had gotten through the chains and the locks on the other side of the doors--the immigrants were escaping. And they couldn’t risk firing, as they couldn’t see what they were aiming at.

Martinsdale’s people painfully hit their heads on the roof-access hatches, and tried to push them up with one hand, while hanging onto the ladder with the other. They had to let go of their uzis (which were on straps) to do this, which made them extremely nervous. It was a frustrating, difficult process, but they eventually made it, spilling onto the roof.

It was a surprisingly large, wide-open area, with a four-foot-high “wall” surrounding it. Turbines and ancient air-conditioners cropped up from the building. Martinsdale and the others ran to the edge of the roof, looking to see where their cargo was going. But the lighting was sparse in this part of the city (and, really, the rest of it), and the immigrants had gotten a serious head-start. Several men each took a side of the building, peering down.

They then discovered that everyone turning their back, at the same time, hadn’t been a good idea.

Some of them were shot in the back outright. Others were grabbed between the neck and shoulder, pressure-points were sought out, and they collapsed, unconscious. Several had their uzis stolen, and were then flung backwards, head over heels. Martinsdale turned, looking at tonight’s bad luck in an entirely new light…

He recognized The Dark Knight--the black-and-orange-clad detective, looking dignified and foreboding in his cloak. The brown-haired Messenger was also there, with his trademark black trenchcoat, and grey slacks and a navy shirt. He had the slightest of smiles on his face. Instead of his usual gleaming automatics, he held an uzi in each hand. The last one was an unknown to Martinsdale…Michael McKinley, with his black armor and black gun. He then realized that he was only seeing them because of a split-second flash of sheet lightning--the storm was still going. He hadn’t even noticed until now. The electric-blue light faded, and they were once again unseen.

They didn’t waste any time. Controlled bursts of gunfire lit up the roof; it was like being in a nightclub with pounding strobelights. There were screams of pain, followed by the sound of physical impact. Martinsdale heard meaty punches and metallic kicks. Something was slicing, glinting silver as it went. During another bout of lightning, he caught a glimpse of Messenge--upside-down and high in the air, with his knees tucked up to his chest--weaving within an enclosing web of bullets, while firing his own.

A few blocks away, several of the immigrants had stopped to look at the firefight on the roof--one of the gunmen noticed them, and was about to yell something, when a metal cord wrapped tightly around his neck. Michael McKinley reeled the line in, pulling at the same time, and the man was whipped to the opposite side of the building. He was released, and he went flying. Eventually, he smacked into a brick wall and fell into a dumpster.

Martinsdale was hit in the head with one of the now-empty uzis that Messenger had borrowed. A few seconds later, another went flying through the air--it was heading for the barrel of a gun, and it muted the blast of gunfire, causing the shooter to be hit by the ricochet. Acid-shurikens bit into weapons, and ninja-style attacks floored unsuspecting idiots. The moon peeked out…Martinsdale could now see that his men were all down, either dead, unconscious, or too injured to get up.

The Dark Knight brandished a katana, and calmly, purposefully approached him. Martinsdale (who had been trying to avoid the fighting) drew his pistol from its antique leather holster and uncoiled his whip. He fired, and The Dark Knight literally shrugged it off by raising his cloak--while his entire uniform was made of an advanced kevlar, his cloak was twice as thick, and more impact-absorbant. The fabric rippled where it had been shot, but was otherwise untouched. Seconds later, the gun had been decapitated by DK’s sword. While he could have deflected the bullets with his katana, or simply dodged them, or gotten to him before he had the chance to fire, it was now time for an interrogation, and he had to establish power and control. Unstoppable, forward motion tended to make most people feel helpless.

Martinsdale lashed out with his whip, and DK caught it in one hand, easily yanking it away from him. It was tossed over the side of the roof. Then, his sword became liquid-metal, and morphed into a silver whip. Martinsdale rose his hands to block it, and the whip wrapped around both his wrists and his neck. It happened so fast, the back of his hands hit his face. He fell onto the ground, unable to push himself back to his feet.

Messenger and Michael flanked DK. In an inhuman voice, he said, “John Kell. You knew him, back in the seventies. Where is he?”

Choking, Martinsdale struggled to answer. “I--I haven’t seen him in years. Everybody knows the big man blacklisted him.”

DK tugged on the whip, causing Martinsdale’s face to be dragged across the roof. “Last week. He called you.”

“No, he--” Martinsdale looked up at them, and reconsidered. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

“Specifics.”

Now, the slaver’s voice and mannerisms were less refined. Simply another punk from GMY. “He just had a bunch of crap about needing my help for something. Didn’t say what. I told him to forget it…first time I hear from him in twenty years and he’s got his hand out?”

DK already knew what he was referring to--the blackmail. “Did he give you a number? Or an address?”

“He said if I changed my mind, I could leave him a note at some boarded-up YMCA. He sleeps there sometimes, I guess.”

“For your sake, I hope you wrote it down.”

“It’s in my wallet.” Messenger removed it from his pocket, and found the address.

DK looked at the piece of paper, and nodded. This was the first real lead they’d gotten all night--they’d been tearing up the streets, looking for Kell’s old associates. While their methods had been loud, Martinsdale was the first they’d mentioned Kell to. There was no sense in tipping anyone off. In all the other cases, they’d simply said they were looking for a certain person, without mentioning that the person knew Kell.

Michael glanced at Martinsdale. “Can we kill him now?”

“Oh, God, come on,” the slaver pleaded. “I’m useful! I can be useful! I know stuff about stuff! About other--other people like me!”

DK grabbed Martinsdale by the hair and lifted him up. “You’re going to plead guilty. You’re going to tell everything you know to the authorities. No deals, no reduced sentences. You won’t mention us. If you don’t follow these instructions to the letter, we’ll be back. Are you willing to do that?”

Martinsdale nodded eagerly and pathetically. DK lowered a small aerosol tube and squirted him in the face, causing him to pass out. The whip reverted to liquid-metal, and the Knightstick retracted it. Then, he took out what resembled a small tape-measurer--it made the exact same noise as one, as a tiny wire came out of it. It was plastic and generic, but extremely strong. He wrapped the wrists and ankles of those who were still living.

Then, Michael fired off a grappling-cord from his wrist, DK did the same from a small device that looked like an electric razor, and Messenger simply jumped. They stopped several blocks away, on a neighboring rooftop.

“He’s more useful to us alive than dead,” the detective stated. “And slave-trafficking is a federal crime. I have contacts--I can have the feds claim jurisdiction here. That way, they won’t get ‘lost’ in the local system.”

“So now what?” Messenger asked. “We hit that address?”

“The two of you can do that,” DK said. He handed each of them a vial of a greenish liquid. “This is an antitoxin for the poison in Kell’s system. With Miller and the hit-squad looking for him, we’ll have to hurry. If you can avoid it, don’t waste time fighting with him--just find out where Flask’s private graveyard is.”

“I don’t see him giving it up voluntarily,” Michael said.

“Tactics. We know that Miller is planning to backstab him--but he doesn’t. He’s already angry with Flask...if he finds out what Miller is up to, it might anger him enough to go public and damage both of them. Telling us is a great way of doing that. But keep in mind, Miller tried to kill him once before, and he still kept the secret. You may have to push extra-hard to convince him. We won’t need him after this, so feel free to try a double-cross.”

Messenger nodded. “We can make it work. What about you?”

“Time-buying. I need to pay a visit to our friendly neighborhood policemen.”

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

Over the years, Keith Thompson had found that people made some strange requests. Of course, his clientele was far from the average criminal…they were utterly average people, who lived in the city or the suburbs and led quiet lives. But in certain situations, they needed his help. His pager numbers floated around the middle-class, being handed out when a client thought that a friend could use his services. He was a thief who made a living out of other people’s possessiveness--they wanted something, they wanted something back, or they didn’t want someone to have something.

Just last month, he’d been hired by a sibling who wanted a family heirloom…a parent had willed it to the irresponsible sister, who was probably going to lose it. Secret admirers loved to own the lingerie (or occasionally boxer shorts) of their objects of affection. Divorces were a goldmine for him; a spouse would want old letters or certain types of photographs and videotapes back. He’d stolen (or, depending on how you looked at it, returned) things like stuffed animals, collectibles, jewelry, trophies, and more. Also, many women--when in Furious Dumping You Now mode--forgetfully left a shirt or two behind, and now wanted to get them back, as they didn’t want their ex’s new lover to be wearing their stuff.

It was, in many ways, beneath him. He usually had to make it look like a clumsy break-in, presumably perepetrated by evil young people looking for drug money or somesuch. In truth, he could easily get in and out and never leave a trace, save for what was missing--but that would tip the police off as to what the target had been. So, he’d knock over lamps and steal small amounts of cash, while trying not to fall asleep. They weren’t getting a true feeling for his skill, and that greatly annoyed him. Also, he loved being a practical joker, and if not for the fact that he had to avoid a consistent method of operation (to avoid any nasty patterns), he’d have taunted his targets in ingenious ways. Having to repress himself just wasn’t fun.

To make things more exciting, he’d moved to New Parody’s state capital--he was a conspiracy-junkie, and living there was a rush for him. Until now, the political nature of the city had never factored into his work. But Miller’s phonecall had changed that. While he’d certainly carried out some strange requests, this was the first one that hadn’t involved stealing.

The apartment was definitely top-of-the-line. It had two levels, and a floor made of some exotic wood that he’d never seen before. Of course, it was dark--the moon could be seen through the picture-window, and some nightlights were on. A box for some kind of chicken-pasta was at the top of the garbage can. Magazines sat on the couch, and a channel-changer was next to them. (Keith was always sure to locate the remote-controls before he took many steps, as he’d accidentally turned on a stereo with his foot, once.) A security-system keypad blinked happily, blissfully ignorant of him. He was thankful they didn’t have a dog.

He wore his usual outfit--black pants and shirt, gloves, a full facemask, and nightvision goggles. His gear was in a bag (it looked like a purse, but it was a bag) that he carried with him. As strange as it looked, he always crouched and slightly waddled when in the home of a target--if you stood up, you could block windows or lights or familiar silhouettes, and one look would give you away.

This was the home of the Senator and his wife, and Keith desperately wanted to snoop around. Just a quick peek at his rolodex, his study, what kind of books were on the shelf…but he knew he couldn’t risk being in there for that long. He sighed.

Keith was now in the living room. He’d stopped by their bedroom, to use a handheld scanner to check for a phoneline. There wasn’t, and that made things much easier. Crawling over to a table with the phone on it, he removed the receiver and placed a piece of black felt over the red light that activated when line one was used. Now, it was time to follow Miller’s crazy instructions.

First, he attached the portable scrambler to the base of the phone. Then, he dialed the number that Miller had given him--which, strangely enough, was Miller’s number at the office. His next task was simply to wait for ten minutes, hang up, and then get out of there. He didn’t understand it, but then, he wasn’t being paid to understand.

All that time to kill…he’d have to find something to do. Looking at the table, he spotted a file-folder that said “Confidential: US & UK Intel Reports”, and smiled.

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

“Any progress?”

The garage looked exactly like all the other garages in the neighborhood--relatively tall, one-story buildings with three vehicle doors and one that led to an office area. Its vehicle-parking area was surrounded by a towering chain-link fence, which was topped off by loops of barbed wire. On the sign, a 50’s-looking cartoon man with a tire for a head was giving the city his thumbs-up. It had an abandoned look to it--the windows had been painted black, and the main door was covered with old cobwebs. Members of a gang loved to hang out around the garage, as they got “business discounts” for scaring people away with the usual Stay Out Of Our Territory line. They often wondered what was inside…

The activity was in a lower level of the garage, which had once been used for additional parking. Mr. Baptiste was watching them get ready. The Asian-American man was still wearing his pricey grey suit, and looked generally calm. The people he watched resembled a SWAT team, except their uniforms were black…the kevlar fabric was matte black, while their helmets and padding (around their torsos, elbows, and knees) were glossy. No skin could be seen, and they had visors that covered their entire faces. Each of them had a snubnosed submachine gun. At the moment, some had their visors up, and were drinking bottled water while examining papers. Baptiste turned to face the man who’d just come in, waiting for an answer to his question.

“We’re getting closer to finding him. I have my best detectives on it,” Miller said. Baptiste looked like he was about to ask a question, so Miller added, “And they know when not to ask questions.”

That seemed to placate him. Miller tried to keep up a confident front--in truth, his relationship with his inner circle had been tested. He’d only told them the graveyard half of the story, so the “Sorella Didn’t Catch” message (which Kell had delivered to the 51st) had confused them. He’d been forced to tell them the entire truth just fifteen minutes ago, before he gave them the rest of his new plan. They’d been angry, but given what he was promising them, they couldn’t turn it down. Remembering what everyone knew or didn’t know or thought they knew was getting a bit hard for him, it seemed like he was juggling too many people…

Since this was unofficial work, he was wearing jeans, with a dark blue undershirt and sweatshirt. While Miller had learned to lie very well, he was having trouble concealing how excited he was. He’d found his escape. Even now, he was resisting the urge to start things off, by “casually” mentioning something to Baptiste. He knew that Keith had pulled off his end of things, as he’d left a voicemail in one of Miller’s private accounts: “It’s done.”

Miller felt younger than he had in years. Baptiste handed him a dossier on Kell, and he pretended to read it, his mind still racing and focused on the plan. The hit-squad was still preparing; some of them looked serious, while others were joking. He figured that he might as well try it now…

He made his best “Oh, I just thought of something” noise, and tried to act normal, glancing at Baptiste. “I almost forgot--there’s something I wanted to tell you about.”

Baptiste started to say something, and was cut off by his cel phone. He answered it. It was apparently some kind of conference call, as he was screaming at people in Japanese, Spanish, and Thai. Miller knew a little Spanish, and he thought he heard something about hidden fees and labor costs. He acted like being interrupted didn’t bother him, but he was rocking on his heels, and he resembled a fast-forwarding video of someone waiting for a long time.

When the call finally ended, Baptiste pocketed the phone, and went back to saying nothing. Miller kept looking at him, and Baptiste seemed to remember. “Oh…whatever it is, you can tell me after we get Kell.”

“But--”

“Let’s worry about one thing at a time.”

To his surprise, Miller managed to shrug it off, stone-faced. Then, he made work-related smalltalk with some of the hit-squad. They sometimes did rotations in the GMYPD. It was like he was watching himself doing this, as his real self had to wait outside for a bit. But he knew that everything--literally everything--hinged on him giving this information to Baptiste. Getting rid of Kell had just become more important than ever.

Baptiste was getting impatient. Miller repeatedly placed calls on his scrambled cel, checking to see if his inner circle had turned up anything new. They kept saying no. Miller tried to make his end of the conversations sound upbeat. The hit-squad looked a little bored--they cracked open a new case of bottled water, more to kill time than quench thirst. Every once in a while, one of them would call in to the vans, which were parked a few blocks away. When the time came, they’d all get in and go to wherever the target was.

Somewhere in the building, a very loud door slammed. By the time Miller had noticed it, the hit-squad had already flipped their visors down, and were near-silently running up the stairs. Baptiste’s face was somewhere between annoyance and alarm--fighting wasn’t his specialty. The two of them waited in the underground parking area, and no noise was made.

Then, they heard some groans--not violence-induced, but anger-induced. There was a heated conversation with a man with a high-pitched voice. One of the hit-squad members came down the stairs, more noisily now, and said it was okay. He was followed by small children, who were lugging antiquated sewing machines.

A balding man with a cheap suit and glasses came after them, looking and sounding self-righteous. “This is--we reserved this building for tonight.”

Baptiste didn’t look happy. “You made the appointment with the real-estate division?”

“Of course I did.”

“You have a cel phone?”

The man seemed offended. “Those--those things are a nuisance.”

“Have you been around a phone in the last few hours?

“No. Look, who are you? I need these little ones to finish a shipment of clothes, or else Mr. Flask will be very angry, I’m sure. I know you don’t want that.”

Baptiste got a dangerously bemused look on his face, and crossed his arms. He regarded the man as an animal that didn’t yet realize it was trapped. “I’m Mr. Baptiste.”

It took the man a few seconds to realize who he was. When he did, his skin yellowed, and looked brittle.

“Our business is a twenty-four-hour one. You need to be reachable at all times.”

“Of course. Of course I do…”

“Unfortunately,” Baptiste said, “You’ve just lost your workforce. Witnesses are witnesses, whether they’re little or not.” He told the children to line up against the wall, and turned to the hit-squad. “Kill them.”

They hesitated. “Maybe we sh--”

He simply glared at them, and they nodded.

Several of them clicked their safeties off, and raised their weapons. They took a step forward to fire, and nearly fell in the process. The rest of the hit-squad seemed disoriented, as well. Slowly but surely, they lowered to the ground, and sprawled across each other.

Miller had his gun out, and Baptiste looked honestly scared. There was some kind of strange reverberating noise, and they both turned to see the other man--who’d led the children in--down on the ground. The noise repeated, and they were both hit in the head with a blurring object--it was actually a boomerang that was shaped like a triangle, rounded off at the edges. It carried a good deal of momentum and concussive force, and they both hit the floor.

The tranqs in the bottled water had worked perfectly. From the shadows, The Dark Knight addressed the children. He did so in a language and dialect they could understand. After ascertaining where they lived and that their supervisor didn’t know that information, or their full names, he told them what to do. One by one, their sewing machines were set on the floor. The children walked out before him--he’d already secured the area and dealt with those in the vans--and he tossed a small orb as he left. It released a vapor that ate through certain kinds of oil, such as the kind that creates fingerprints. The orb’s shell disintegrated, and the sewing machines were essentially wiped clean. He’d found that certain members of the organization held grudges against people who had gotten away from them. Content that the children were safe, he followed them, preparing to lead them home.

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

While Messenger had never been one for philosophy (unless it was immediately practical), he couldn’t help but feel a deep, profound connection to Gothametropolis York. He knew they all had their reasons for being there…for instance, DK was a global operator, but he viewed GMY as the nexus, breeding ground, and capital of those he was fighting against. For Messenger, it was something else. As much as he hated to admit it, the city was something of a mirror for him.

The saying “No good deed goes unpunished” didn’t do the concept justice. Messenger knew what life was like--if you tried to do the right thing, it was extremely likely that you’d somehow suffer for it. He’d lost a lot because of choices he’d made. They’d usually been the right choices, but that hadn’t stopped his life from getting worse. People close to him had suffered--to say the least--because of the fact that he’d taken a stand. GMY was in the same predicament. They’d been successful, but it was built on factories that practically violated human rights--and after the Squire had brought the truth to light, the city’s economy had never recovered. The price for justice.

Messenger didn’t view “justice” in abstract ideological terms. It was simply a tangible, visible fairness that everyone deserved. And after everything he’d been through, he knew what the true enemy of justice was. Not greed, or corruption, or selfishness, or some vague notion of evil--it was simply comfort. When someone’s life was going well, they tended to stop thinking about what was happening to others. The city could have chosen comfort over justice, and GMY could have ended up as a thriving (but soulless) metropolis. That was part of why Messenger wore old clothes and slept in rat-infested hotel rooms: while he still wanted a normal life, he’d simply given up on the idea of comfort, as he saw it as being too dangerous and seductive.

But given his current locale, he didn’t need to worry about being comfortable. Messenger and Michael were on the relative outskirts of the city, though it was still a thickly urban area. However, there were many emtpy lots around. Dirty rain was still coming down, and vehicular exhaust was sweltering from above. El train-tracks were at one end of the neighborhood, and a highway overpass was at the other. Lights flickered and streamed up on the overpass; it was the best way for travelers to avoid setting foot (or tire) in the city. There were very few intersections, to make things safer--it was virtually impossible to carjack anyone on the overpass, as it was cramped, there was no easy access for those on foot, and few intersections meant few stoplights, so things were very fast-moving.

They crouched on a rooftop, looking down at their destination. It had been a YMCA, once, but now it was shell that was just barely standing. The building was now a colorless grey, and most of the windows had caved in, leaving holes above them. Huge piles of torn cardboard leaned against the exterior walls, and skeletons of cars were on blocks, like they were a waring for people to stay away.

Messenger reached into his coat, making sure the antitoxin vial was still there. It was. He gave Michael a questioning look.

“He’s in there,” Michael said, using his suit’s scanners. “Alone. Lying down or sleeping. But judging by his breathing and heartrate, I’d say he’s awake.”

“Any opinions on how we play this? Maybe good cop/bad cop?”

“Good cop/bad cop went out years ago. I say we tell him about Miller, and if that doesn’t convince him, we give him some encouragement.”

“Sounds good to me. Let’s do it.”

They took turns leaping down to a lamppost, and then onto the ground. Right as they did, a young woman came out of the building they’d been on top of--she had frizzy purple hair and trashy goth clothing. Judging by her lowcut top, she was about to go out for the night. She took a step back, clearly startled. They turned to face her, and she noticed that they were both holding guns. Messenger was afraid she’d scream and give them away…

“Are you guys looking for that crazy old guy?” she whispered, more surprised than scared. Pointing at the YMCA, she said, “He’s right in there. I don’t know what his deal is, but he’s hitting on me all the time. And I think he’s stealing my garbage.”

“You don’t want to be out here when this goes down,” Messenger said. “Stay inside for the night. Or if you’ve got a boyfriend, go stay with him.”

“I’m--no. I’m single.” She gave Messenger another look. “I’m very single.”

Michael was looking longingly at the YMCA, clearly wanting to go in and get to work, and not enjoying being out in the open…

Messenger sighed. “Look, just go back inside, okay? And you never saw us.”

She looked slightly offended. “I’m not a narc! Geez…” Then, she said, “And it’s about freaking time that you superguys started a crew up here. I mean, I--”

Suddenly, Michael opened the door, gave her a gentle push inside, and slammed it. “Want to do this before he looks out the window?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They crossed the street and circled the building. One alley entrance was blocked by ancient, degrading tires, and another was actually welded shut. But they weren’t yet looking for a way in; they were checking to see how easy it’d be for him to run off. Then, they found a hole where one of the windows had caved in, and crawled through it. Multifaceted pebbles of shatterproof glass crunched underneath their feet, and many large, draped objects loomed in the darkness.

The rooms were well-sized, they’d once been classrooms and workout centers and arcades. There was a grainy lack of light. Their guns at the ready, Messenger and Michael crept through the halls, their backs pressed against the wall. A tiny glow could be seen in the distance, several halls down.

Unfortunately, the building was strewn with obstacles. Flimsy, tipped-over chairs, deflated basketballs, empty cans, filthy syringes, and more. As they got closer, they could see his shadow. Then, they saw him--he wore jeans and a black t-shirt. He was sitting crosslegged on a mattress, which was on the floor. The room was empty, and a small electric lantern was present. A cel phone was also there, and Kell was staring at it in a frustrated way. Just in case he didn’t find the kid he’d had with the Perez chick, he wanted to start on making another one. But he couldn’t do that if he couldn’t call his women…he needed a voice and motor-coordination to use the phone.

“Anybody home?”

Kell tried to get up so quickly, his legs got tangled, and he nearly tipped over. He saw Messenger, blocking one of the room’s two exits.

“Relax--I’m not here to start something.”

Kell’s expression didn’t change. Quite a few superheroes had told him that…he usually woke up in jail the next day.

He didn’t stick around to hear more--he simply took several steps backwards, and then turned and ran for the other doorway. Michael was there, holding his gun with both hands and pointing it at Kell.

Weighing his options, Kell kept moving forward. He didn’t want to get risk an extended fight with these two, the best move was to swallow his pride, get shot once or twice, and take off. Times like this, he was glad he was bulletproof. He thought this right as Michael shot him point-blank in the head. Kell stumbled back, his mouth open (but silent) in pain.

He fell on his butt. Then, he was desperately feeling his forehead, checking for blood. There was none. He felt a nasty welt, though. Kell had heard about some new kind of bullets, something like “explosive shells”…

“It’s make-a-deal time, Kell,” Messenger said casually. He held a vial with green liquid in his hand. “If you want to get that stuff out of your system, this is what you need.”

Kell looked both confused and suspicious. Drinking an unknown liquid that was being given to him by a person who routinely killed criminals…it just didn’t seem like a good idea.

“It’s safe. But we want something in return--the graveyard.”

Kell’s eyes widened, like he’d just been caught. His movements became skittery. He suddenly felt like an old, confused man, who was stupidly sitting on the floor, unable to express himself.

“Miller is playing you,” Michael said. “He’s been put in charge of an organization hit-squad, and they’re looking for you right now. They think you’re trying to blackmail Sorella. So, you can forget about Miller finding your kid.”

Though Kell was still registering the information, Messenger wanted to cut any potential doubt off at the pass. “He’s already tried to kill you once--of course he’s gonna try it again. If you want to hurt him and Flask, you need to go public with what you have. You can screw their lives, right here, by telling us where the graveyard is.”

They gave Kell a few moments to think about it. He was staring ahead blankly, still stunned by the bruise on his forehead. Then, he held up his index finger, and nodded.

Messenger set the plastic vial on the floor, and rolled it over to him. Kell popped the top off, took a breath, and drank it. He mentally counted to ten, and then tried to speak--but nothing happened. A brief look of fear flashed across his features, as he wondered if he’d just been played once again. Then, he hiccupped, and his entire body jumped as he did. His cheeks stayed puffed out, and his eyes were bugging.

Kell crawled to a corner, and threw up on the floor. After about a minute and a half of this, he wiped his mouth on a nearby blanket and went through the epic struggle of getting onto his feet. He said something that vaguely resembled “Bleh”, and then looked surprised. “Testing…testing…yes!”

Michael and Messenger were both unimpressed, waiting.

“Right, the graveyard. Well, I was trying to say--with the finger--that there’s one condition.”

Michael advanced towards him, and Kell backed off.

“Easy, geez. I just need you to find my kid for me. You do that, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Messenger groaned. He’d been afraid of this.

Kell yelped as Michael shot him in the upper arm. He clutched it, and glared at both of them. “You wanna shoot me all night, go right ahead. You aren’t gettin’ any answers if I’m hospitalized or dead or whatever.”

Michael lowered his weapon. Unfortunately, he had a point.

“Look--stay calm here, I’m just gonna use the head. Right in there,” he pointed, avoiding any sudden movements. “No windows, no way out. You don’t gotta shoot me again. You can, uh, you can have a little conference about this stuff while I’m gone.”

He went into the bathroom, and closed the door, but didn’t lock it. Michael marched over to Messenger. “I can’t believe we’re putting up with this idiot.”

Messenger rubbed his jaw, staring at the floor. “We need some leverage. Right now, he’s got what we want, but we don’t have anything he wants…at least, anything we’re willing to give him.”

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Then, simultaneously, they looked at each other.

“DK is gonna kill us for this,” Messenger sighed.

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

In the Catacombs, silence was like dust: if no-one tried to get rid of it, it became thicker and more noticeable. Hours had stretched on with nothing being said, but Mallory didn’t mind. She sat on one of the black couches, covered in a dark plaid blanket. Susie Perez was sleeping on the other half of the couch, underneath the same blanket. She’d tried to stay awake, but she’d gone through a lot in the past few days. Of course, so had Mallory…her arm still hurt from its gunshot wound. Susie’s baby, Jake, was sleeping in the padded playpen. One of the battery-operated lamps (there were no plug-ins down there) was on a very low setting, giving the stone room a hazy, understated glow.

Mallory kept picking (her) loose red hairs off the blanket, while immersed in thought. She actually wasn’t worried about the guys…they were professionals, and she found it both easy and logical to have faith in them. Her focus was on a different aspect of the same subject. As a Harvard business grad, her mind worked in terms of practical priorities and long-range planning. Quite simply, she was a thinker. She had a number of tools and programs and resources to carry out Third Day’s work, and as strange as it was, some part of her mind viewed the trio of vigilantes as just another potential resource.

They had access to huge amounts of rare information, they were able to investigate things, they were obviously physically formidable, and they could do subtle manipulation, as well. Her mind was bubbling with ways to put them to work. She ran across many situations that could use their help, which gave her ideas...and she couldn’t help but organize those ideas. Surrounded by stone and darkness and ancient rituals, she was well into the process of constructing a plan.

Mallory had never been lazy. While they did their kind of work, she did hers. She pulled out her laptop, went into Word, and started typing. “Third Day” was a reference to resurrection, and the belief that GMY’s time was coming. The city could come back to life. And as Mallory’s realistic optimism painted a new picture, the chances of that happening improved…

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

The sound of ringing shocked Miller out of unconsciousness, and reality flashed back to life.

He was lying on the floor of the garage, and his head felt like it could explode at any second. The attack was at the fore of his memory. Panicked, he scanned the room--but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Except an entire hit-squad passed out on the floor.

Ignoring his screaming cel phone, he half-walked, half-crawled over to Baptiste. The proper social etiquette for waking someone up escaped him, so he gently said his name several times, getting increasinly louder. Baptiste groaned, turned over, and then felt the concrete floor against his cheek. His eyes shot open.

“Mr. Baptiste? Are you okay?”

“I’m--I’m fine. I’m…” He trailed off, sat up too quickly, and got a look at the hit-squad. “The kids are gone. Where are the kids?” His voice was spacey. “We have to--no, wait. Kell.”

With that, Miller realized that he was holding his cel phone. He must have grabbed it by instinct. Caller ID claimed that the 51st was calling…

He hit a button and held the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“It’s Kayson. You aren’t gonna believe this…some tipster called in and gave us Kell’s location. It’s some old YMCA by the overpass. We checked the complaints from that neighborhood, and there’s a few against a guy matching Kell’s description. For vagrancy and crap like that.”

“Hang on.” Miller pushed the phone againt his chest. “We found him.”

Baptiste looked relieved. He stumbled over to the hit-squad, attempting to wake them up--but they didn’t budge. They were really out. Baptiste made a “wait a second” gesture, while his eyes drifted to the right. Then, “There’s another squad out tonight--they’re probably done by now. Maybe we can get them instead.” He got out his cel, hit speed-dial, and said, “It’s me. Are you still out? Good--I need you to make another run. Hang on just a second, and I’ll give you the address.”

Miller went back to talking on the phone, and got the address. For the first time in years, he felt eager about his work. Once Kell was out of the way, he could tell Baptiste what he’d wanted to tell him before…with one sentence, the tables would officially be turned.

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

“You guys make up your mind, yet?”

Kell was drying his hands with a paper towel, and looking at Messenger and Michael. He seemed calm enough. The room he’d been staying in was cramped and windowless, and definitely ugly. While Kell wasn’t paying attention, Messenger glanced at Michael, who shook his head. They needed more time.

Messenger shrugged, as if they were still trying to decide. “Why exactly do you want your kid?”

“Same as everybody. On account’a my fatherly impulses,” he lied. He needed that kid’s DNA to give himself a power-up, so he could get back in the game. And it wasn’t callous--the kid had a decent chance of surviving the procedure.

“Kid’s with the mom?”

“Yup.”

“Any ideas on how to find her?”

“Nope.”

“We need this graveyard info now, so if you’d just tell us, we could find your kid after that.”

Kell gave Messenger a “How stupid do you think I am?” look. Messenger tried not to look sheepish--he had to at least try it.

Annoyed, Kell said, “Are you guys serious about this or not? ‘cause if you’re not, I’m just gonna go see what’s goin’ on in the clubs.”

Messenger spent several seconds trying to formulate more excuses to waste time and keep him from leaving, but thankfully, he never had to use them. Faking surprise, Michael said, “We’ve got company!”

Kell looked confused for a moment, and then realized that Michael’s suit had scanners. He cursed, looking down at a small pile of belongings, apparently wondering if he could take them with him. The answer seemed to be no. “How many?”

“More than thirty. And they’re all heavily-armed…looks like the hit-squad found you.”

Then, Messenger and Michael both pulled their guns on Kell, who looked horrified. “Are you crazy!? We gotta fight ‘em together, or we’re all screwed!”

“There’s a new deal, and it goes like this,” Messenger said. “We get you out of here alive, you tell us where the graveyard is. The other option is us leaving you nice and injured for ‘em.”

“But my kid--”

“I don’t know if you’ll find your kid or not…but if you don’t play along here, you definitely won’t.”

Somewhere in the building, a door was kicked down. Cascades of disciplined footsteps echoed. Indecipherable, military-esque order-grunting could be heard. They were getting closer…

Kell waited for Messenger and Michael to flinch, but they didn’t. And he didn’t have a choice. “Fine, let’s do it.” Then, he mumbled, “Effing psycho vigilantes…”

He didn’t know the half of it. As they retreated further into the building, blocking doors with obstacles as they went, Messenger suppressed a smile. One simple call had given them quite a bit of leverage over him; now he had a problem that only they could solve.

As they ran, Kell tried to carry on a conversation. “Best way out of here is one’a the backdoors, but there’s crap in the alley that keeps ‘em from opening. But I think I could get past it.”

“No good, they’ve got people watching those doors,” Michael said. “We need to get out without anyone seeing us.” Then, he stopped in his tracks, by a large section of blank wall. The other two slowed. “There’s a room behind here, but it doesn’t connect with the rest of the building.”

“Yeah, it used t’be a laundromat or something. They rented before all this was a YMCA.”

“They don’t have anyone watching that door--they must think it’s a completely different building. It’s our best shot.”

Messenger pushed against the wall, testing its strength. He looked at Kell. “Don’t just stand there, crash through it!”

“What, you mean me? It’s been years since I--”

“Now is not the time to be insecure,” Michael snapped. “Building’s old, and the walls are weak. You shouldn’t have a problem.”

Then, they realized things were about to get complicated.

Messenger ducked, and Michael flattened himself against the wall, as a concentrated stream of bullets knocked Kell off his feet. It hit him right in the stomach, and he went flying backwards, down the hall. A hit-squad contingent had located them, and were coming around a corner.

Acting so quickly and smoothly that they didn’t notice, Messenger slid a parcel bomb on the floor. Michael crouched, penetrating the hit-squad’s armor with explosive shells. This distracted them so much that they didn’t notice the bomb sliding right up to their feet. It went off, setting several of them on fire, and a section of the ceiling collapsed, separating Michael and Messenger from the hit-squad. Clouds of plaster-dust blossomed in the air.

“Kicking the crap out of these guys isn’t gonna get us any closer to to the graveyard,” Messenger said. “Let’s just grab Kell and go!”

Michael shook his head. “If we can take out one of the organization’s hit-squads, we sh--”

They separated, each stepping backwards, as bullets began popping through the mound of debris that filled the hall. The squad’s submachine guns were starting to cut through it. A hole opened, and more and more bullets were flowing through, flying down the middle of the hall. The two of them pressed their backs against the walls, as the river of bullets increased, widening closer to them…

“I have some serious NRA envy going on,” Messenger shouted over the gunfire, looking at his sleek silver automatics. “My armor-piercers can eat through their kevlar, but not that metallic padding crap they’ve got on!”

“New plan,” Michael said, tossing his gun over the bullets. When Messenger first caught it, a red light activated, and the safety locked--then, Michael gave it a command, and the light went green. “I keyed it to you. If you lose it, don’t worry--nobody else can use it, and it’ll come right back to you.” Michael then tossed him minimalistic clips of ammo. “These things have quite a few shots in ‘em.”

“What about you?”

Michael held a nickel-colored tube in his hand--a dull silver blade made of kinetic energy came out of it; it was very thin and flat. “I’ll be the distraction. You find Kell, get him out, and get him to tell you where it is!”

Messenger nodded, and took off running in the direction that Kell had gone.

As he held his sword at the ready, Michael was having doubts about their plan--not that telling a hit-squad where they were had been a particularly sane thing to do. But it had sounded good at the time…

The bullets finally made a man-sized hole in the debris, and the hit-squad members could only fit through one at a time. Which was perfect, really. As soon as the first one stepped through, Michael slashed at him, leaving a dark crimson gash on his torso. He stumbled back, blocking the way. Right as Michael was about to go through, someone was shooting at him from behind. He dodged, and only a few bullets hit his armor. It was another contingent; the two groups had been planning to sandwich him…

Michael lunged low at the new group, changing his sword’s frequency into something more solid. He swiped at their ankles, and when the blade made contact, it set off focused kinetic explosions. Legs were broken, gunmen fell, and some crashed into each other as they did. He straightened up, changing the frequency to partially intangible, and simply spun. The blade went through everyone close to him, giving them internal bleeding and a searing sensation as it went. He snap-kicked and spin-kicked the ones that were still standing, while slicing others with his sword. Preparing for the next attack, he saw there was none--they were all down, and the majority were dead. Glancing back at the hole in the debris, he saw that they’d abandoned it, and were apparently trying another route.

Fully activating his scanners, he got a clearer picture of their situation. Several groups of the hit-squad were roaming the halls, and men armed with handguns and walkie-talkies were watching the doors. Messenger was trying to pull Kell back onto his feet, in an area that they hadn’t searched yet. But one group was getting close…

He sprinted down the hall, around a corner, and through a room, heading for them. One had his hand on the doorknob of the room that Messenger and Kell were in. Michael screamed at the men, his amplified, distorted voice filters scaring them half to death. They turned and fired.

Michael gladly let them--he cannonballed through the air, spinning his sword as he went. Bullets ricocheted off his armor, and the hit-squad members staggered back, away from the door. The sword was solid and explosive again, and it scattered them when he made contact. They were violently thrown through the air, hitting walls and cracking them. Others were spun or knocked down, and they accidentally shot their comrades (at close-range) as they went, their lines-of-fire zigzagging against their will. He kept battering away with the sword, and their bodies just couldn’t take it.

A shielded communication went out from one of them--they apparently had headsets in their helmets--and his scanners showed the other contingents swerving, heading towards him. Perfect. Now, it was time to draw them away from that one blank area of wall, so Messenger and Kell could get through.

Again, the sword’s frequency shifted; it was now razor-sharp. Michael ran straight at the newly-arriving gunmen, ignoring their firestorm of bullets. They were in a bad situation: their weapons couldn’t hurt him, his brain and biology were several times faster than their own, and their kevlar and padding simply couldn’t protect against something that could cut through almost anything. In seconds, the room was covered in blood…

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

The Dark Knight was monitoring the YMCA situation. He’d been picking off the ones that were watching the doors, and setting up several contingencies. Earlier, he’d contacted some of the honest members of the authorities, and informed them as to what was going to happen. He wanted the transfer to take place as quickly as possible, with many organizations involved, to avoid a cover-up. An electronic intercept informed him that another hit-squad was on the way, and he’d have to disable their vehicles to buy more time. But before he did, he was hoping that someone would get back to him…

A communicator beeped, and he held up a credit-card-shaped device. A familiar voice asked him what was going on.

“Do you have five minutes? I need you to pick something up.”

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

Miller drove his navy, two-door sedan (he could’ve afforded something sportier, but he didn’t want to look suspicious) like a madman, flying through the night. He wasn’t taking any chances, which was why he’d asked Baptiste to call in a back-up team.

Kell was all that was standing between him and his future. With him gone, Miller could say the one sentence that would change his life. Miller promised himself that the man would be dead within the hour.

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

Jerry Salkins didn’t like this. Tonight was supposed to be easy--the hit-squad he was part of had just had to take down some guy that hadn’t even had any bodyguards. It had been kind of a disapointment, really--they stormed his flat, one of them shot him, and that was the end of it. A clean-up crew had followed them…they’d wrapped up his body, gathered up the physical evidence, and taken everything away. Rumor was, the big man had a shiny new disintegrator that he ran bodies through. Piles of ashes came out the other end. Jerry wondered what he’d done before he had the disintegrator. But then they’d been called out to this YMCA, and they’d barely been given any information: it was apparently some washed-up super or something. And then all his super-buddies had started popping out of the woodwork…

Now, Jerry and several others were walking down a dark hall, kicking garbage and other obstacles out of the way. Screaming, prolonged gunfire, and a weird energy-humming noise was in another part of the building, and it creeped them out. They’d had to turn off their headsets, as people kept wailing into them. Everyone else was dealing with that, while they were stuck looking for the guy all by themselves. Most of the time, there were never less than ten in a group, and Jerry was extremely nervous…

It was slow-going: room-by-room checks took forever. Each time, they had to get into position, kick the door down, and slowly go in. A thorough examination of the room--they dealt with all kinds of crazy crap, like secret passages and hidden rooms--took quite a while. And it was nervewracking. Their visors had cheap, flickery nightvision, and with all the gunfire, they couldn’t really hear. Somebody could stomp up behind them and they’d have no idea.

Then, when they were just coming out of a room, the guy they were after actually stepped out into the open. He was in a hall intersection, just standing there and crossing his arms. His shirt was torn up around his stomach, and Jerry thought that it made him look kind of gay. He was about fifteen feet away, and they quickly raised their weapons, pointing…

Jerry felt something brush against him--it was his comrades. They were falling. Tiny, bloody holes were in the back of their helmets. Behind them, Messenger was standing sideways, pointing a sleek black gun. Before Jerry could react, he felt an iron-hard hand around his neck, and their target slammed him into a wall. A massive fist smacked into his face, shattering his visor and ending his life on the spot.

Messenger and Kell both glanced around, and Kell rubbed his stomach. Several submachinegun bursts had intersected there, and it was still bruised. Slipping the gun into his coat, Messenger liberated two of the submachine guns. Kell did the same.

“We can use any of the doors we want,” Messenger said. “It’s clear.” DK had contacted him about that. “But there’s another hit-squad on the way, so we’ve gotta move.”

“I think that one wall’s closest, let’s just go there.”

“Fine by me.”

They took off down the hall, pausing at the intersections--but everyone seemed to be off fighting with Michael. Not that Messenger was complaining…still, taking on everyone when you didn’t have to was the kind of thing a kid did. Messenger had learned that, as fun as it could be to take down those who deserved it, there were more important things. A few minutes later, they’d arrived at the blank section of wall that had an empty room on the other side. Dead bodies were strewn across the floor.

Kell raised his fist, hesitated, and then lowered it. “Ahh, screw it.” He took several steps backwards, crouched like a runner, and charged, leading with his shoulder.

The wall practically vaporized--or at least turned into powder--on the spot. It made a strange, loud puffing noise as it did. And unfortunately, there were more gunmen on the other side.

They were leaning against the walls of the empty room, with their helmets off. Most looked winded. These were the ones that had been injured, and managed to get away. They didn’t look at all happy to have company…

Kell looked surprised, and he just stood there like a sitting duck. Messenger shoved him back through the hole with his elbow, and aimed both submachine guns at them. Kell still hadn’t given the information, so they needed him alive, and there was no point in risking his life again. Two triggers were pulled just as the wounded hit-squad members were trying to steady themselves and lining up their shots…

It was like they’d been hit with a powerful wind--initially, their armor held. Tiny pinpricks of blood came from their kevlar-covered arms and legs, but their more-armored heads and torsos were protected. It looked like liquid-metal bugs were splatting against their helmets and chests. Messenger ran forward, jumping through the air and coming down on one of them, slamming him into the floor. Of course, he was still firing. He ducked under a spray of bullets, and then came back up, kicking someone in the chest. The force knocked them off their feet, and they crashed into someone who was just about to fire. He let loose at close-range, and their armor was starting to give ‘way.

Noticing that their throats weren’t protected, he actually tossed one of his guns into the air, reached in his jacket, sent razor-letters flying, and caught the gun when it came back down. The letters lodged in their throats, and they went down, gurgling. While killing wasn’t the first option for Messenger, he was more than willing to do it, if he had to. The stakes were too high to risk playing nice.

Sensing that things were a bit safer, Kell came out, shot one of the gunmen (it didn’t penetrate the armor), and then tackled him. He emptied one entire gun at two of the hit-squad members, and then abandoned it. Now with a free hand, he was able to effortlessly grab and throw people, and his punches sent them flying. A random burst of gunfire hit him in the back of his shoulder, and he cried out. But he was smart--he let himself fall, turned as he went, and shot the guy that had just shot him.

Messenger’s guns ran out of ammo, and he dropped them, scooped two more off the floor, and took out the remaining hit-squad members. One was managing to put up a fight and avoiding Messenger’s line of fire, but Kell knocked him off his feet. He was flying through the air, a sitting duck, and Messenger let him have it. It was over.

Michael came through the hole in the wall, still holding his sword. “Everybody done?”

“Looks like,” Messenger said, as he gathered up his razor-letters.

Kell didn’t need to say that, if that was the case, it was time to go. He simply led the way to the room’s door, and they hit the street.

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

When they were a few blocks away, they stopped to rest in an alley. Kell’s breath was coming in heaves, and he wasn’t able to stand up straight. “God, how do--how do you people do that all the time?”

Messenger was giving Michael his gun back, and checking the amount of ammo in his own two weapons. “Helps to be a little crazy.”

“We got you out of there,” Michael said forcefully, “Now it’s your turn. Where’s the graveyard?”

Kell started saying “It’s” a lot, and acting like he was looking around to make sure things were safe. He then attempted to run.

A bizarre reverberating noise came out of nowhere, and something with a cord attached to it wrapped around both of his ankles. The line went taut, and he hit the ground hard. The Dark Knight fell from the black sky, landing silently. He held the other end of the cord.

“Don’t.”

Kell cursed and groaned and complained about how much everything hurt.

Tossing off an aside, Messenger said, “We wouldn’t have turned down a little help back there.”

“You had the situation under control--and I had things to do. There’s a back-up hit-squad on the way, but they’ll be a little late.” Just as he said it, the sound of a massive vehicle overturning could be heard, and an explosion flared, several blocks away. “I’ve bought us at least a few minutes, so let’s use them.”

They all glared at Kell, who was trying to get back on his feet--but they were still wrapped up. He gave them a “Haven’t I suffered enough?” look, and sighed. “Fine, fine. It’s--geez. It’s just a few blocks thataway.” Kell pointed, and Michael said he’d check it out.

He got there in two swings and three jumps. It was a large lot, covered with dirt and a few patches of crabgrass. Random bits of garbage were half-buried. With all the rain, it was muddy and a dark brown. Michael focused his scanners on it, and at first, nothing came up…then, he gradually saw a fuzzy outline of what was there.

There were dozens, maybe even a hundred. Some were skeletons, and some were still decomposing…they were all wrapped in some kind of space-age plastic. And someone had mixed microscopic flakes of chemical-soaked metal foil into the ground, to screw with anyone trying to scan it. He guessed that most satellites wouldn’t pick it up. Michael double-checked the addresses of the nearby buildings, and then went back the way he’d came.

He landed next to Messenger and DK. Kell had gotten up off the ground, and his legs were no longer bound. “That’s the place.”

“Toldja,” Kell said petulantly.

DK got the address from Michael. The detective had something in his hand--he spoke into it, passing the information to someone else.

When he was done, Kell looked like he was waiting for something. “Well? You guys’re gonna let me go, right?”

Without warning, Michael pulled his gun and pointed it at Kell’s head. Kell jumped back, but he bumped into a fire escape, and he had nowhere to go.

DK ever-so-slightly raised a hand, signaling for Michael to hold off--but Michael didn’t budge. Regardless, DK asked, “How did you know about the graveyard?”

Kell spoke to DK, but his eyes were glued to Michael…or rather, Michael’s gun. “I, uh…back in the day, some guy got drunk and showed it to me.”

“They’ve been using it since then? The late seventies?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What else do you know?”

“It used t’have some caretakers…I dunno, I think they moved away or something. I know they aren’t doin’ it anymore. But they weren’t doin’ it by choice in the first place, y’know? This guy, he owed the big man.”

“What were their names?”

Kell started to tell him, and was then distracted by the sound of screeching tires. Jackbooted feet pounded down a sidewalk. Messenger sighed.

They took off, and Kell said, “Same deal as last time! You get me outta this, I give you the names!”

The Dark Knight had two main objectives in mind: leading the hit-squad away from the graveyard (as it was about to have company, and he didn’t want the hit-squad to notice), and extracting the information from Kell. He communicated this to the other two over the shielded frequency he’d given them--Messenger had a flesh-colored earpiece in, which DK had provided, while Michael’s armor could pick up the signal on its own.

Michael scanned the nearby buildings, looking for an empty one. A three-story brick building, with an ancient “Al’s Heating” sign on the top, fit the bill perfectly. It was far enough away from the graveyard, as well. He pointed it out to them.

“You two handle Kell,” DK said, “I’ll do the rest.”

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

Messenger kicked the door down in one smooth motion, and he, Michael, and Kell raced up the stairs. The Dark Knight took another route. He dropped marble-sized balls of wire, and they bounced on the ground, before shooting out in many directions. He did the same thing around the first-story windows and the other entrances. The wire was so thin it was virtually invisible. Upon noticing that Messenger had detonated some parcel bombs on the stairs, caving them in, he gave an approving nod. He sought out the other two staircases and rigged them, as well.

The hit-squad was just starting to catch up with them--with all that gear, they were weighed down. Their usual, gradual style of surrounding a building had to be ignored, and they hastily broke into groups, chose which door or window they were going to use, and went inside. Which turned out to be a mistake.

The point-men ran straight into the electrified wires, and they were so tightly-grouped, the current passed from them to those behind them. Their shoddy nightvision devolved into green static, and the building was already pitch-black. Most of the point-men were unable to get back on their feet, their armoring now smoldering husks. They tried to shoot through the wire, wasting ammo, and the wire eventually broke up on its own, dissipating, as it had been designed to do.

One of the groups had taken the east entrance…they were now making their way through what had once been a shop of some kind. Since they couldn’t really see anything, they kept bumping into counters and abandoned equipment. Though they’d heard nothing, their guns were somehow turning into boiling liquid in their hands. They dropped their weapons, and were then attacked. These were concentrated blows, the force of which seemed to pass right through their armor. Some were flipped, others were thrown, and more were sliced by a silver sword. The attack stopped as suddenly as it had began: they were all lying on the floor, their bodies numb, their armor feeling heavier than it really was. It felt like they’d been beaten up for an hour, instead of under a minute. Someone had known exactly how to overload their nerve-endings and pain-receptors…

Another group had taken the front door, and, upon seeing that the main stairs were useless, they’d gone in search of a side stairwell. As soon as they all got in, the part of the stairwell above them collapsed, and several levels accordioned straight down. They were trapped underneath tons of metal, unable to get out.

The last group was smarter…they sent just a few men into the building’s third (and final stairwell), to make sure it was safe. It apparently was. They’d been planning to go in slowly, but something was behind them--a blade kept popping out of the darkness, slicing their weapons and cutting through their armor. The men were yelping in surprise and pain, jumping back and breaking formation. They were in a hurry to get into the stairwell. The small crowd surged, and they all went in. Halfway up, the acid-bombs went off. It was like being surrounded by sprinklers--dark green liquid rained on them from all directions, eating away at their armoring and guns.

By the time they made it to the second floor (an expanse of empty space), they looked pretty ragged. And while the acid only ate through inorganic things, it burned quite a bit. They were fatigued, made worse by the fact that a sedative had been mixed in with this batch of acid. Now, they felt stupid, helpless, and drained.

Which, of course, was exactly when he hit them.

They never got a good look at what, exactly, they encountered. It was just a violent shadow, moving with an uncanny, dark grace. It snapped their bones and found their weaknesses with a precision gleamed from both modern medical science and an ancient, arcane understanding of the human body. Reverberating objects flew through the air, knocking them off-balance and simply knocking some of them out, as they packed an incredible punch. These things didn’t bounce off walls, they curved and changed direction in mid-air, like a boomerang would. The further they traveled, the more momentum they picked up, and the harder they hit.

Lashing out with a sword, the blank-eyed silhouette continued assaulting them. Some of them tried to tackle it (it was definitely an “it” and not a “him”), or lunge at it, but it sidestepped or ducked or jumped, and always seriously injured them in the process. Several were able to get back in the fight, but they didn’t, as they’d just been attacked by the darkness, and there was darkness everywhere. It was a fact of life. Now, they could never look at it without wondering if it was going to come to life and hurt them. Many of them would be in therapy for months, even years…

Tranq-shurikens sunk into skin, bubbling and dissolving. Single punches left entire limbs too sore and stiff to move. Explosive kicks sent huge men tumbling across the room. One hit-squad member still had his gun, he was trying to get a bead on it, and the next thing he knew, his gun had been sliced in five or six segments, like it had been run through a shredder, and it was falling apart right before his eyes…but it was impossible, the ammo should have gone off, and the blade should have sliced his hand.

Smoke-bombs went off, and the men were coughing and trying to wave it away; but it wasn’t typical smoke. The last of them were brought down by a combination of fatigue and injury, and The Dark Knight vanished into the ceiling, popping out on the equally-empty third floor.

Michael, Messenger, and Kell were waiting for him. Michael said, “The big man is calling in everybody within two miles--all the local gangs, the cops, all the thugs he has out there. They’re all gonna be here!”

“They are here,” The Dark Knight said. A second later, they heard the building’s fire-escapes rattling, as a ton of people came up them…

There was a broken skylight above--Messenger and Michael jumped, and DK fired off a grappling cord. Kell was left alone, in the lightning-lit room. “Hey, it’s my turn, here!”

On the far edges of the room, the motley, mismatched army was pouring in through the windows. Kell jumped up and down, waving his arms impatiently. A few lone, weak shots were starting to ricochet off him.

Michael lowered a grappling-cord, and Kell grabbed on. After pulling him up halfway, he stopped. “The name!”

“Geez, come on!”

“The name!”

“It’s--it’s Adams! Paul Adams! He used to be a bartender!”

Michael nodded. “This,” he said calmly, “is for Jill Winters and Jake.”

“Who’s Jake?”

Voltage passed through the cord, and Kell spasmed. His iron-hard skin actually shared a few properties with real iron, and it didn’t offer much resistance to electricity. Kell slammed to the ground, landing on his back. The floor cracked underneath him, but he didn’t fall through.

Dozens of armed men surrounded him, and they opened fire. The last thing Kell saw was the three vigilantes abandoning him…after that, there was nothing but pain, light, and death.

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

Even in the middle of the night, it was something of a spectacle.

Huge, unmarked delivery trucks were rolling through the neighborhood, as countless black bodybags were hauled out of the boarded-up YMCA, and then loaded into the trucks. A dozen blocks away, injured hit-squad members were carried out on stretchers, and placed in vans that doubled as ambulances. They weren’t going to any known hospital. The emergency reserves that Flask had called in were leaving, but not before wondering what, exactly, was powerful enough to take out two hit-squads. It was an image that they would never forget, and one that would make them rethink their career choice.

Considering the sheer size of the operation, the people couldn’t help but notice. While they usually tried not to, there were a lot of rumors flying around tonight, and curiousity got the better of them. The anonymous, well-dressed men (who were so common in the city) looked more shaken than secure, which was rare. But tonight had had the opposite effect on the people. Considering that they lived in what often felt like a city of victims, they were pleased that the other side knew what it felt like, for once.

Several men were trying to keep the minimal crowds at bay (the fact that they’d drawn a crowd at all was a surprise), repeatedly saying that there was nothing to see here. The people’s eyes told them otherwise. Some of the men looked like they were ready to start smacking the onlookers around, but they were acting more self-controlled than usual, like they didn’t want to risk it. Something had happened to the organization tonight…something that had made them less brash and daring.

Miller was a late arrival. He parked his car a block over from the YMCA, and jogged in the barely-there rain. He thought about the safety of being seen in public with these people…but at the moment, he didn’t really care. He had something to say. Still, he made sure to keep his back turned to the tiny group of bystanders, which was already dispersing. They now seemed more dismissive and pitying than curious and fearful.

Baptiste was in the middle of the action, pointing and giving orders. He had his cel phone out, but he wasn’t talking into it. When he noticed Miller, a look of annoyance flashed across his features--then, it faded. While he wanted a scapegoat for this fiasco, Miller couldn’t be it…he’d actually gotten his part of the job done. In a reasonable tone, he said, “Congratulations, you led us right to him.”

“Happy to help.” As soon as he’d said it, he realized how cheesy it sounded, and wished he could take it back. “So, you got him?”

“With a little effort.”

“If I’d have known he was this much trouble, I’d have offered you some back-up.”

“He wasn’t the problem,” Baptiste said, dejectedly. His expression sagged.

“I know this is a bad time, but…” Miller took a breath. Now or never. “I have some information that might be extremely important.”

Baptiste reacted more to the tone the words were spoken in, rather than the words themselves. Miller sounded sure of what he was saying. “Hit me. I need something to take my mind off all of this, anyway.”

Miller prepared to give the performance of his life. “Right before we spoke in the garage, I got a call at the 51st…it was from Senator Sorella.”

Baptiste shrugged. He’d told Miller that the Senator might want to ask him about the search for Kell, so it wasn’t a big deal.

“He was wanting us to check out an address--except he didn’t want me to tell you about it. He said it was a minor thing, and we shouldn’t waste your time.”

Something about that sentence put Baptiste in a different mode and mood, like he’d been interacting with Miller on a superficial level before; but now, it actually mattered.

“He said it was something that we could use against Kell. I told him we’d look into it, but we had to find Kell first…I guess that he actually sent some people to talk to my detectives. They tried to talk them into going to the address and having a big media announcement about it. There was a lot of innuendo about how we should be listening to the Senator, and not Mr. Flask, because things were changing.”

“What was the address?”

Miller told him.

Baptiste’s eyes locked onto the ground, and for a few seconds, he was nearly motionless. Miller started to say something, but he was interrupted by, “You didn’t tell the media, right?”

“Of course not.”

Baptiste’s posture relaxed, and he let out a breath.

“But we had to give it a look. And we’ve heard all the rumors about the graveyard, so it wasn’t hard to figure out what it was. I just--well, geez. I won’t lie to you. I hate my job, okay? But I’ve put too many years in to let it all go down the tubes like that. I really, really want to be in politics, but not that bad.” Miller deeply sighed, tugging on his coat’s sleeve. “And, uh…I asked some former detectives of mine to help out with the Kell thing, and they’re missing, now. I think that the Senator contacted them, too. I thought I was misunderstanding what the Senator was saying, but when that happened…well, I realized how threatening he’d sounded.” Among other things, this was the perfect cover-up for the ones that had died while fighting alongside the skinheads.

Baptiste looked at him in a vulnerable way. Then, he mumbled that he had to make a call. He walked about fifteen feet away, but Miller could still hear him. Baptiste hit speed-dial. “It’s me. I need you to run the Senator’s phone records for tonight. Yeah. Look for something going to a Captain Miller at the 51st.” A pause. “Scrambled? But--no, I know you monitor them. But I didn’t think Sorella had--exactly.”

Walking back over to Miller, Baptiste asked him where his car was. They went to it. The address was just a few blocks away, and Baptiste wanted to see it. Miller was fighting off the urge to grin and dance around.

It only took a minute to get there: when they did, there was just a massive hole in the ground, between the buildings. The entire empty lot was gone. Baptiste and Miller were equally stunned.

Time dragged on for quite a while. After the shock had passed, Baptiste robotically turned on the radio, switched to AM, and started scanning for news-stations. Miller was still trying to hide his happiness. He obviously hadn’t planned for this part, but it was a nice touch. It made his little frame-up a lot more effective. The idea had been to make it look like Sorella was backstabbing Flask, by telling them about the graveyard, and trying to get them to draw attention to it. After else, how else could they know about the place? The call and the missing ex-cops backed up his story. He’d ordered his inner circle to double-check the paperwork from the case where they’d discovered it, in order to get rid of anything that contradicted this new version of events. And now, it looked like Sorella had told the supers about the graveyard…

They found a station that was talking about it. The FBI, the CIA, the Department of Justice, and other organizations were all talking about some big new discovery. An “anonymous tip” had led them to it. When they held a press conference at this hour, you knew it was a big deal.

Baptiste’s lips moved, as if he was trying to form the words to a very complicated sentence…but all that came out was “Discipline.” He nodded. “He’ll be disciplined.”

Miller didn’t know what to say. This seemed like a deeply meaningful moment, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

“You’ll…you’ll be rewarded for this. You’ll definitely be rewarded. The political job is still yours, but it, ah, it probably won’t be under Sorella. We need a new liason between the state and the GMYPD, so maybe you can have that.”

Miller gave the required respectful smile, but he kept it small. Inside, he was rejoicing at the irony: Sorella’s career had been built on something he hadn’t done, and it would be destroyed by another thing he hadn’t done. Justice.

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

On days when Gothametropolis York was wrapped in dark clouds, early sunrise (like late sunset) was one of the few times that one could actually see the sun. It was just starting to come up, and before long, it would go too high and be swallowed by a storm waiting to happen. But for now, it lit up the thin ring of clear horizon, giving the grey-and-black city a golden halo.

Mallory Bell had a newspaper in one hand, and a cup of apple juice in the other. She’d always been a morning person. Today, she had on bluejeans, a black button-down tanktop, and a black-and-white baseball shirt, which she wore as a jacket. The Catacombs were quiet, and a bit warmer than usual. She walked to one of the main sitting rooms, where a wall-clock showed that it was still horribly early. Duffel bags and a modern black “suitcase”--the fabric-y kind that zipped up and had wheels--were arranged neatly on the floor. And, of course, they were there.

She tossed the paper onto the low table in front of the black couch. It was a copy of the Parodiopolis Star, a nationally-distributed tabloid. Messenger picked it up and read the headline: Trifecta: GMY’s Vigilante Community Makes a New Gamble Messenger saw that, like any good tabloid, it didn’t have an abundance of information…just a few pictures of two shot-up buildings, man-on-the-street interviews that talked about a new alliance of vigilantes, and claims that the graveyard discovery (“Are Hoffa and Elvis in there?”) was somehow related to all this. Messenger read the headline again. “Trifecta?”

Mallory shrugged. “That’s what they’re calling you on the streets.”

“It’s a betting term,” The Dark Knight explained.

“Vigilante community…we’re a community, now?” Messenger read the entire article. “The Dark Knight, Messenger, and an unidentified third man. Ouch. Sorry, man,” he said, looking at Michael.

Michael said nothing. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

Mallory sipped her apple juice. “Sorry, but the other papers ignored all three of you. Well, not quite…they were all talking about the graveyard.”

The Dark Knight nodded. “We managed to beat Flask’s men to the home of the people that had been the graveyard’s caretakers…they didn’t want that job, but they owed Flask a lot of money, and he offered to have them work it off. We talked them into going to the authorities--they were extremely cooperative. They’ll be able to link the graveyard to the organization. There should be a mountain of forensic evidence in there.”

“And Kell is no longer a threat,” Michael said, with an air of finality.

“It’s too bad we couldn’t have taken him alive--he could have proven the truth about the Jill Winters murder, and made life more complicated for Flask.” The Dark Knight glared at Michael as he said this.

Michael stared right back at him. “Jill Winters got justice. And there were some living people to keep in mind.”

As if on cue, Susie Perez came in, carrying little Jake. She wore khakis and a burgundy t-shirt, while he was in a brand-new baseball outfit, complete with cap--they were dressed up for their trip. Their hiding was officially over…with Kell gone, it was safe for her to go back to her life. Or rather, to start a new one.

Mallory took Jake, so Susie could double-check her luggage. “Do you have your tickets?”

Seaching in her pockets, Susie nodded. “They’re right here.”

While Mallory recited a list of things, asking Susie if she had them all, Messenger reached over to Jake and turned his cap sideways. “Much better.”

Jake went back to gumming on Mallory’s shirt.

The Dark Knight stepped forward, glancing at Susie. “And you know what to do once you get to Seattle.” It was a question that was posing as a statement.

“I go to the address you gave me, talk to the person you told me about…” DK had pulled some strings and gotten her a job at Icarus Innovations--it was just data-entry, but it was a special program for girls in Susie’s situation. They provided corporate apartments and excellent healthcare, and she could telecommute, so she could still take care of Jake. She could also take night-classes to get her GED…and II provided college scholarships for these employees, if they could pull that off.

Susie then went about hugging everyone--Mallory and Messenger seemed comfortable enough, but DK and Michael just stood there awkwardly--and thanking them for everything. DK asked if someone would be escorting her to the airport, and Mallory said that one of their security people was going to make sure she got on the plane. Then, Mallory walked Susie upstairs.

“So, that’s it,” Messenger said.

Michael got DK’s attention. “How much damage do you think that graveyard evidence will do?”

“It’s hard to say…but at the very least, it means more heat on the organization. And that’s always a good thing.”

They all just stood around for a few minutes, looking at the front page of the newspaper and not really saying anything. Mallory returned, and looked pleased. “I’m glad you’re still here…I need to show you my pitch. Hang on just a sec.”

She went into another room, and returned with a CD in a clear plastic case.

“I think you guys should stay together. And if you want to keep using the Catacombs, that’s fine with me.”

Messenger gave her a questioning look. “What, you mean like a team?”

“No…I know how uptight you guys can be about terminology. Not a team. Just--just an alliance. Whatever you want to call it, I think it’d be great for the city. You know all the cliches: strength in numbers, all that stuff.”

“Sounds good to me,” Messenger said. “It’d be nice to have some company out there, for a change.”

She gave DK a hopeful look, with puppy-dog-eyes. He nodded slightly. “It’s tactically sound.”

Michael just crossed his arms.

Mallory walked over to him. “C’mon, look at what you did in two nights…and it’s not like you’d be doing it all by yourselves. I could help you. I’m good at planning, I run across a lot of information in my work--” Then, she waved the CD. “--and I’ve got a lot of ideas.”

“Not to sound too obvious, but, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to hear from someone who isn’t completely dark and screwed up,” Messenger grinned.

Sensing that things were going her way, Mallory pressed on. “And maybe it’s just the old capitalistic opportunist in me, but, you guys hurt Flask last night. It’d be a crime not to take advantage of that.”

That seemed to resonate with Michael. He gave a thoughtful “Mmmmm.”

“We don’t have to make any major decisions right now,” The Dark Knight said. “Maybe we should meet up again tonight, just to make sure there aren’t any loose ends. And if something else should come up…” He trailed off, and shrugged in a self-explanatory way.

“We might as well do that,” Michael agreed. “Just in case.”

Right before their little meeting broke up, Mallory eyed DK appreciatively--he’d given Michael a way to get involved, without actually having to admit that he wanted to get involved. While she was thankful for that, she was trying not to roll her eyes…men were all terrified of commitment.

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

The door opened, and a rectangle of light stretched into the dark room. Baptiste hesitantly walked in, staying within the borders of the brightness. Flask couldn’t be seen. This was one of his favorite tricks…you never knew who was in the office with him. If you came to make an accusation or blame someone for something, they could be standing right there, and you’d never know it. The big man loved his psychological warfare, so he always lowered the lights for visitors.

From far away--it was a large office--he heard Flask’s voice. “Speak.”

“We’ve made some progress on the Miller situation, sir. We’ve confirmed that some of his former detectives are missing, and the scrambler was on Sorella’s end of the connection.”

“What did the good Mr. Sorella have to say?”

“He denied the whole thing, sir. As expected. But he can’t--or won’t--explain the call. He claims he didn’t touch the phone all night. And we couldn’t find the scrambler.”

“What about his wife?”

“They’d just gotten the phone that day--and she uses a cel. Her fingerprints weren’t on it…just his.”

“Do you believe Miller?”

Baptiste shrugged. “He could be telling the truth, but it’s a little too convenient.”

“Is there any other way he could have learned about the graveyard?”

“Not that we’ve found, sir.”

Flask considered it. “If Miller is telling the truth…then he’s loyal, and we need that. If he’s lying, then he’s resourceful, and we need that, as well. Let’s keep him close.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And Sorella?”

“As you said, sir, we couldn’t risk giving him the benefit of the doubt. He’s been dealt with. I doubt he’ll ever be a problem again.”

In the blackness, Baptiste thought he sensed Flask smile.

“I want you to take a look at this,” the big man said. Someone else’s hand reached out of the darkness, and handed a piece of paper to Baptiste. He took it. On it was a sketch of a man in sleek black armor.

“It’s one of the vigilantes.”

“Of course it is. But take a closer look--picture the suit bigger and bulkier. With golden segments covering his hands, his feet, his torso...”

Baptiste blinked. “It’s a stripped-down version of the Royale armor.”

Flask snorted, annoyed that it had taken him that long to figure it out.

“Do we--”

“We don’t know who Royale is, but the scavenger claimed that he killed him, through a third party.”

“Right…”

“Look at this man’s attitude, his choice of weapon, his casual murdering…he’s a lot like Royale was. Maybe a rebellious protégé, or a son.”

“Royale didn’t have a sword, though.”

“He did, but he never used it. He mentioned it to me, once.”

Baptiste now had to bring up an unpleasant subject. “You’re aware of the Trifecta, sir?”

“Yes, I saw what that insipid little newspaper is calling them,” he groaned. “In one night, they’ve given us enough headaches to last a year. What fallout can we expect from losing the graveyard?”

“Well…as you know, sir, the authorities constantly try to bring charges against you. But most of the time, they’re thin on hard evidence, and they can never get a grand jury to okay an indictment. Without that, they can’t have a trial.”

“But now?”

“But now, they have more to use against you. I doubt they’ll have enough to get many convictions, but they’ll be able to take big cases to trial. We’ll have to sacrifice some low-level employees.”

“How many cases are we talking about, here?”

“There were eighty-some bodies in the graveyard...and for many of them, you were already suspected in their disappearances…”

Flask snarled, hitting the desk.

“We’ll lose at least a hundred million in legal fees--trials cost more for us, than others. We depend on overwhelming them with the sheer number of lawyers. To keep that up, we’ll have to divert money from other areas.”

Flask seemed to calm down. He said, thoughtfully, “The genius, the fallen…and, apparently, the dark prince. I don’t like this.” A lamp came on at the desk, and meaty hands incongruously held flimsy pieces of paper. “But there’s another influence here. This isn’t just the genius guiding them--there’s a fourth man. A silent partner. I’m sure of it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised at all, sir.”

There was a quiet urgency in Flask’s voice. “They’re getting smarter. They’re finding more effective ways of hurting us. It isn’t just about beating up our people on the streets, anymore…they can target us financially, legally…”

Baptiste didn’t know what to say to that.

The light went off. “You’re excused, Mr. Baptiste. I suggest you work harder than ever.”

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

Mallory Bell’s room, which was on the small upper floor of Third Day, was fairly spartan. White walls, a hardwood floor, a few ancient dressers, and a very simplistic bed filled the small area. On the plus side, it had its own bathroom. It was five minutes before eight, and the morning was once again dark, as rain started to come down. Mallory stepped into the bedroom, wrapped in a black towel. Right before she took it off, she realized that she wasn’t alone. She gave a start, and, upon seeing who it was, relaxed.

“Messenger told me that you wanted to see me…I see that he’s up to his usual tricks,” The Dark Knight said, dryly.

Though the room seemed to darken whenever he was around, she tried to keep the tone light. “That’s a reality show waiting to happen--Vigilantes Play Matchmaker.”

To her surprise, he made a noise that almost sounded like a chuckle. Then, the natural awkward pause. “Well. It’s getting late, and I have things to do.”

“No, hang on--as long as you’re here…did you get a chance to look at that CD?”

“Yes.”

“...and…? What do you think of my plan?”

“It’s good.”

She couldn’t conceal her surprise. “Really? I know it’s more about social stuff than crimefighting, but--”

“We need both. It’s not just a matter of taking down the city’s ruling class--along the way, we’ll need to rebuild. And we’ll need people like you to help with that.”

“I assume you have a plan, too--do you think our plans are, uh…compatible?”

“I’d say they definitely are.”

He walked over and took her hand. Energy shot through her, and she tried to stay calm--he was just examining her upper arm. The square bandage (which, as he’d told her, was waterproof) was still there.

“I think we can take this off. A clear liquid-bandage should be all you need, now.” He gently removed it, slipped it into his cloak (he didn’t want to throw it away, as people often examined garbage, and it was anything but generic), and removed a small tube. In seconds, a clear coat of gel dried on the scar, covering it perfectly.

She smiled at him. “What you did for Susie…that was just great. They talk about you being scary, but you’re a big, huggable teddy bear under there.”

“I am not, in any way, shape, or form, ‘huggable’.”

“Uh-huh. So I completely misunderstand you?”

“Completely.”

“For someone who doesn’t get you at all, I think I did a pretty good job of finding a way to see you every night.” He started to say something, and she said, “ Now you can go.”

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

It was, of course, the perfect morning. Miller had slept in, and his blonde mistress, Kris Henner, was still in their bed. He hadn’t bothered waking her up--he’d be done with her, soon. It was obvious what Baptiste had meant when he said they were going to “discipline” Sorella, and Theresa would need someone to help her through the grief and the mourning and all that crap. If their old friendship naturally became more than that, what could they do, other than go with the flow?

Miller walked through the half-dark apartment, and opened the door. As expected, today’s copy of the Squire was rolled up in a rubber band, right on his proverbial doorstep. He picked it up, and was just about to peel the rubber band off when a phone rang. But it wasn’t his land-line, and his cel was off…

He looked around the room, trying to find where the ring was coming from. Kris mumbled angrily and pulled the pillow over her head. At first, he thought it was on or under a blue couch, then he looked on a shelf, and then in his coat, which was hanging on a hook. Finally, he saw it over in the kitchen, sitting right out on a counter. It was a phone he’d never seen before. He took several long steps over and automatically turned it on.

“Captain Miller?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“I have an offer you might be interested in. I’ve heard you’re getting tired of the big man’s organization…”

“What? Who is this?”

The voice told him.

Miller realized that his mouth was open--he knew that last name. Everyone did, really. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“It’s the beginning of the end for dinosaurs like Flask. I’m just calling to let you know that we have a place for you in the new organization--a higher place.”

“Sorry, not interested.” While Miller liked to keep his options open, his current situation was what he’d always wanted: he had no desire to leave.

“If you change your mind…”

“Whatever.” Miller hung up, tossed the phone on the couch--he was a fair distance away, and it was a perfect toss--and then wondered about what had just happened. Was it a test of his loyalty? Or maybe they just hadn’t updated their information about him--last night, their assessment of his job-satisfaction would have been accurate.

He shook his head, trying not to think about it…then, he spotted the paper, which he’d dropped on the floor. Miller pulled the rubber band off. As expected, Flask’s discipline of Sorella had made the front page. The headline, ACCIDENTAL DEATH , made him smile. He unrolled the paper, and read the next line of text: Senator Sorella’s Wife Has Lethal Fall Down Stairs

End

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night, I live another life
These dreams are sleep when it’s cold outside
Every moment I’m awake, the further I’m away

--Heart, “These Dreams”

Next: “The Lamb of God”, by Messenger

Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*

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Follow-Ups:

waiting for the TPB! - Yo - Fri Aug 15, 2003 at 12:34:21 pm EST Coming out soon! *nt* - Finny - Sat Aug 16, 2003 at 01:27:46 pm EST Violent and not particularly good at keeping their word, are they? (no text) - Visionary - Mon Aug 11, 2003 at 10:41:16 am EST Two traits that every vigilante needs! *nt* - Finny - Mon Aug 11, 2003 at 01:24:36 pm EST As always, the award for best lighting, soundtrack, and camerawork in a prose comic story goes to... Andy Dean! - HH - Sun Aug 10, 2003 at 07:20:34 am EST ...I hope the story was decent, too, heh. *nt* - Finny - Sun Aug 10, 2003 at 05:04:56 pm EST One fun ride. *quits writing, due to looking incompetent in comparison* - anonymous - Fri Aug 08, 2003 at 11:54:24 pm EST You're in denial about your talent, yes. *nt* - Finny - Sat Aug 09, 2003 at 03:02:22 pm EST This was the best one yet. Bloody marvelous. I wanna know how Messy tops this! Oh, and I guess... [Spoilers] - Nats - Fri Aug 08, 2003 at 10:06:53 pm EST I'm sure you can top it. But I have even bigger stories in mind for the future, so you'd better start getting ready now. *nt* - Finny - Fri Aug 08, 2003 at 11:55:09 pm EST Terrific stuff. (no text) - killer shrike - Fri Aug 08, 2003 at 09:51:35 am EST Stuff is good. I like stuff. *nt* - Finny - Fri Aug 08, 2003 at 11:52:46 pm EST Andy, I'm sorry I havent read these. I'm planning on printing the whole set, then reading on the bus. Knowing you, they MUST be good! (no text) - ag - Thu Aug 07, 2003 at 10:43:43 pm EST Poor trees. (no text) - Nats - Fri Aug 08, 2003 at 05:20:07 pm EST They aren't that poor. And they scheme against me. *nt* - Finny - Fri Aug 08, 2003 at 11:50:02 pm EST

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