StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Hero Detachment 17
Comings in the Dark

Chapter 1

The break room at Hero Detachment 17’s offices in downtown Silver Bay was always in a state of chaos that made it seem that it was about to bubble through the door and burst into the hallway. It was into this disorder that Chief Constable Wilkins strode, a manila folder under his one arm, eyes alertly checking for any debris that might impale his foot.

A variety of heroes filled the room- men and women with super powers reading magazines, playing chess, or drinking coffee before their morning shift started. It usually made Wilkins uncomfortable. He was not bigoted, of course, that had gone out with the Second World War- but it did make him uneasy being in a room full of people that could see inside his soul, pick him up and snap him like a twig, or slow-broil him inside his suit.

In, briefing, and out, he said to himself, using the same mantra as always when he entered the chambers of Hero Detachment 17. There was really nothing to fear; they were, after all, an elite, effective force, a group of Gifted individuals (as was the politically correct term) who undertook special training with the Silver Bay Police Force to join units of Heroes who defended the innocent and stopped the criminals regular policemen could not. The men and women in the room around him had been responsible for bringing more criminals to justice that he could recall easily, and so he relaxed… slightly.

Even with all the privileged people in the room, there was really only one that Wilkins had come to see- Superintendent James Jones, the head of Hero Detachment 17- better known as Phantasm. Wilkins gestured towards him, engrossed in some sort of informational program on the television. Reluctantly, the hero stood, and several people rushed to grab the remote control and flip to something more entertaining. Wilkins fancied he saw a flash and felt heat, but decided it would be better for his health and sanity to simply ignore it. Phantasm disappeared in a shimmer, and Wilkins was left to walk into the room by himself, where he found Phantasm already sitting.

“You know how I feel about teleportation, Superintendent.”

Phantasm grinned. “Makes you feel giddy inside?”

“No.”

“Oh, it’s not jealousy, is it?”

“Definitely not. I’m never going to find myself stuck halfway through a concrete wall.”

“Just gives you the willies then.”

Wilkins nodded, and looked about the room.

There was a simple long, wooden table and a dozen pine chairs in the room, lit by a massive window that covered the entire far side of the room. There were a variety of pictures of several costume-clad heroes adorning the three beige walls, many of whom had been killed or transferred to a different department. Wilkins thought it a grand tribute, but had overheard Phantasm referring to it as a depressing waste of a good wall. It was a very narrow room, maybe 10 feet at its widest, and followed the curve of the building exactly. Wilkins thought it a silly design, as the briefing table had had to be specially made by a local carpenter to fit the curvature, but the heroes had seemed to like it. The two men sat down across from each other near the middle of the table; Wilkins admired the view out the expansive window.

Phantasm spoke first. “New orders, Chief?”

Wilkins nodded. “I’m sure you’ve heard the reports.”

“There are more than a one, it’s a big city,” smiled the hero.

Wilkins shrugged, and tossed his manila folder into the centre of the table. “Two things I want you to be working on today, then,” he responded. “Firstly, there was a murder in the Greenhill neighbourhood last night. The victim was the proprietor of a marginally successful dry-cleaner’s.”

Phantasm’s face was puzzled. “Why are the supers being given this? Is it not pretty routine?”

Wilkins shook his head. “They found scorch marks at the site- and not flamethrowers, either. A pretty specific pattern of burn marks, and nothing else was touched except the victim and the chair he was sitting in. A search of the place turned up a large amount of fireworks, and we’re not sure what connection, if any, the two things have, we’re sending you guys in to be on the safe side.”

“No chance they went off on their own, is there?”

“Are you even listening? Nothing was touched except him and the chair.”

“A small firework would do that.”

“These weren’t small fireworks. This man had munitions in his back room rivalling what we’ve got in the Silver Bay Armoury. If they had have gone off, Greenhill would be now Greencrater.”

Phantasm nodded. “Fair enough. The second thing?”

Wilkins pointed to the folder. “Familiar with Tam Newville?”

“No.”

“Drug lord of some repute. He was born in Britain, and moved to Colombia with his father when he was in his teens. Since then, he’s amassed a pretty significant drug empire, and has been shipping the stuff pretty regularly into the city. Since we can’t prove that it’s him doing it, we can only arrest minions we catch in the act, which are easily replaced. Anyway, we saw him wandering through Chalmers on the East Side the other night, but we didn’t pick him up since according to the books he hasn’t done anything.”

Phantasm looked curious. “What’s he doing in Silver bay? It’s quite the distance from Colombia.”

“That’s what we thought. Anyway, we followed him through, and busted open a few paces he’s been working. He knows we’re onto him, but I’m fairly certain he also knows there isn’t any warrant out for him in the States as yet.”

“There’s nothing you can charge him with?”

“Don’t you worry about that- we’re working on it. Anyway, some of the cronies we picked up had interesting stories- most of them are dealers, pretty big time. Apparently they were promised a lot of blow, and it won’t be coming through for two or three weeks. However, in exchange for lighter terms, a lot of them told us about some sort of shipment that’s coming through Fourth Harbour tonight on the back of some Colombian coffee. For obvious reasons, we don’t think it’s drugs.”

Phantasm nodded. “So, find the shipment?”

Wilkins rose from the table. “And stop it, if it’s not too much trouble. You’ll have whatever regular forces you need at your disposal as of dusk tonight. Give us a call.” With a quick nod, he left the room, leaving Phantasm alone at the table. This was going to require some planning.

*****

The alarm clock, all things considered, was probably not the most effective method of waking up Evan Mason, also known as Sonic Scream. Its klaxon blare resonated through the room for most of a second, when it simply stopped making noise. A few seconds later, when Evan fell back asleep, the clock resumed its noise-making. Some mornings, this could go on for an hour- the alarm clock being silenced by Evan’s almost unconscious manipulation of sound, and making noise as soon as the hero drifted back to full sleep. This morning, however, Evan reached over, slapped the ‘off’ button, and rolled out of bed. He shook his head, vainly hoping to clear the sleep from it, and stood up gingerly.

Damnit, I’m going to be late for work, he thought, regarding the clock, and crossed his apartment to the bathroom. He gave a passing glance out the window, his 40th floor room affording him a decent view, and after determining that giant robot wasn’t rampaging through the city, he decided to set his morning routine off at a leisurely pace. He ran the shower hot, jumped in, lathered, rinsed, repeated, and jumped out in no particular hurry, and decided to brew coffee rather than simply make instant. He checked his watch.

If I catch the subway in five minutes I’ll only be ten minutes late- I can slip in and no-one will even notice, he mused, pulling his costume on. It was mostly white spandex, hemmed in a pattern that suggested a musical staff, with notes throughout it. His cape was the exact opposite- black base, white detailing. He had picked it up from a thrift store only last year, and it had grown on him ever since. He grabbed a mug, tossed back some of the fresh coffee, and started out the door.

Luckily for him, the subway had a station not ten metres from the front door of his apartment building. He descended the staircase into the station impassively, regarding the people around him. Here and there there were costumed heroes standing about, or waiting to catch a train, but the vast majority of the commuters were just regular suited businessman like one would find in any city in the world. He packed onto the Southbound train, rode three stops, and ascended to the street.

Here the concentration of Heroes was high, it being right outside the main Downtown Police offices. It was here that his Detachment, number 17, was based, as well as the training facilities for new heroes and heroines. Evan grabbed a newspaper from a street vendor, tossed him a dollar, and went into the building. He emerged into the lounge of Detachment 17, a messy, jumbled place, and set about clearing a place for him to read his paper.

“Morning, Evan,” said a simply massive man beside him.

“Hey, Tank. How’s things?”

“Same as always. Wife’s upset, we were out till 10 last night on the Newville sweep, rounding up drug dealers and the like. She made dinner, it burnt; she wasn’t too happy.”

“Can’t say I know what it’s like. Pick her up some flowers on the way home?”

“Probably. They do the trick.”

Evan turned back to his paper, skimming through headlines. He flicked through a little further, and stopped. He read the byline- ‘Local Drycleaner Murdered, Superpowers suspected.’ He turned to Tank, generally known to the citizens of Hyperopolis as The Human Tank, sitting beside him. “Tank, you heard about this?”

“What?”

“Drycleaner got murdered last night. They say superpowers.”

“How did the media hear about this before we did?”

A woman sidled up to the table- she was in her thirties, but still fairly attractive- she had long, thick black hair, deep brown eyes, and very fair skin. In addition to her costume, a predominately indigo affair complete with cape, and an eye in white front and centre, she wore a pair of thick, yet suitably modern glasses. “They might have told us about it, Scream, you were half an hour late. Who knows what you missed.” She smiled warmly, and sat down in the plush chair across from the two men.

“Thanks for that, Blink. And I was only ten minutes late.”

Blink winked. “Don’t think hiding your watch under your gloves is going to work,” she said, pointing to the large flared white gloves that Evan wore. “I can see it’s set accurately. X-ray vision, remember,” she said, tapping her glasses.

“Well, just don’t tell the Boss, okay Chief?” said Evan, gesturing with his head to the picture of Phantasm on the wall, beside pictures of past Superintendents of Hero Detachment 17.

“That’s Chief Inspector, Constable Scream, but we’ll let it go, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tank spoke up from his place on the couch. “So does anyone know what we’re doing today? I heard talk from the boys downstairs that-“

The door knocked, three times. The room went quiet, and most heads turned towards the noise. The thought went unspoken- Who knocks at the door to HD17?

“Come in?” ventured Evan, projecting his voice to seem as if it was coming from outside. It had been decided soon after he had joined the detachment that the PA system was now unnecessary outside, and could be scavenged for parts to get free cable on the lounge TV.

The door opened, and a young man, perhaps 18, entered the room looking sheepish. He wore no costume, simply a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt, and carried a stack of books in his hands. The room was silent.

After a long pause, Evan spoke again. “Well, out with it. What’s up?”

“M-m…” The boy trailed off, looked at the floor, looked back up, and tried again. “My name is Mike Johnston. I- I’m enrolled in the Academy, and I was assigned here for my practicum. I have a note from Professor Freemason to give to Superintendent Jones.”

Blink rose slowly, and with a warm smile put her arm around the boy. “Phantasm’s in his office. My name is Blink, or Julia if you prefer my regular name, that’s Sonic Scream, or Evan, and there’s Tank, or Hank.”

Tank smiled toothily. “They’re pretty different, try not to get them confused like I do.”
Blink continued. “Why don’t you sit down and watch some TV while we wa-“

At that moment, Phantasm’s head poked out from the Meeting Room, passing through the door. “Quick meeting, guys,” he said, and catching sight of Mike did a double take. Mike was doing the same, unaccustomed to seeing people sticking their heads through doors without some sort of accompanying trauma. Phantasm recovered first, and looked at Blink. “Bring the kid.”

A/N: Feedback is greatly appreciated- I realize I have a horrible track record for finishing stories I start, but we’ll see where this goes.

Chapter 2

The Drunken Porpentine was possibly one of the seediest bars in all Silver Bay. In truth, it couldn’t really be called a bar- the establishment had closed its bars in the 80s after a high-profile murder case, then the subsequent high-profile human smuggling ring, and the final nail in the coffin came with the low-profile e.coli poisoning. It was ultimately this last thing that did the Porpentine in, and the owners, not able to pay the massive health violations fine, boarded up the windows, stripped out almost everything of value, including most of the illegal drugs stuffed inside the plush seats, and left for good. The place lay empty for close to twenty years, a safe haven for rats and squatters, a place that came to be casually ignored by passers-by.

Truthfully, it was not much to look at- a fairly standard concrete, three-storey building with boarded up windows, a rusting, non-functional neon sign, and the strong smell of urine and stale booze on the front steps. While in many neighbourhoods it would be cause for concern, in Chalmers it was par for the course.

It was because of its very inauspiciousness that Tam Newville had chosen it as a sort of home away from home while in Silver Bay. A good deal of his product came through the city, and from time to time he liked to check in on the troops… just to see how they were getting on, of course. Tam was a slight man, nearly swimming in his charcoal grey Armani suit, with short black hair, light brown eyes, and a somewhat crooked nose. He never deigned to explain it to anyone, as simply no one asked. Tam Newville’s nose needed no explanation, as the silver-grey artificial hand he sported as well as a fierce hatred of all things Argentinean told most of the story for him.

He sat in a plush chair on the top storey of the building, peering through the one window he had removed the plywood from. It had at one point been a guest bedroom, but it had been striped down except for the bed frame and plush chair, which had evidently been too much trouble to get down the stairs when the prior owners had moved out. The early morning light illuminated dust particles in the air, the pattern ebbing and flowing with his every breath. There was a slight knock at the door, and Tam stood up, crossing the floor and opening it with his flesh and blood right hand.

In strode a young man, wearing a long black cloak, silver boots, and a silver necklace, into which was set a red gem of some sort. It seemed to pulsate under its own power, and cast a deep red glow over the man’s pallid skin throwing deep shadows over his eyes. He seemed somewhat skeletal, as if he had been out of the light and kept away from decent food for some time, but his stride was purposeful.

“You’re back,” said Tam.

The man nodded, but said nothing.

“What took you so long?”

“I was followed.” His voice was low, almost a growl. He cast back his hood, revealing his head to be completely shaved bald.
Tam smiled. “I trust it you were not compromised.”

“Choi is dead.”

At this, Tam laughed heartily. “Just the news I wanted to hear. Have a seat,” he said, pulling a chair from the corner in front of the large plush seat. The man did so, sitting down in the chair much like an empty robe would. “Who followed you?”

“The Tooth Fairy,” growled the man.

“Now, now, Pyre, be nice. I mean human, or otherwise?”

“Regular police, they may have had a Hero with ESP. At least, she’s the one I think I killed.” Only now did his face break into a grin, mirroring the frown appearing on Tam’s face.

“You weren’t seen doing anything… unnatural, were you?”

“Not by anyone that lived to speak about it. As soon as I killed the woman, pursuit disappeared, but I had to walk here. This may be a city of heroes, but a man in a black cloak with a glowing amulet still attracts attention. And I know how particular you are about secrecy,” added Pyre. Tam’s face relaxed.

“Then we have nothing to worry about in the meantime.”

“Except my payment.”

The tension in the air was palpable. Tam’s expression darkened, and his artificial arm flexed nearly involuntarily. “We have terms,” he said.

“You told me I would receive half my payment upon completion of the contract, and half the next day. Choi is dead, where’s the money?”

“The terms of the deal have changed. You’ll receive full payment tomorrow.”

Pyre rose quickly, knocking over his chair. “Bullshit! I need that money, you shrivelled bastard!”

Tam’s calm was unflappable. “You understand that my business is a tad unreliable, for obvious reasons. Perhaps it is best you return at this time tomorrow, where you will receive full payment, plus 10% for the inconvenience.”

“You lied to me, you fucker.”

“Would you have preferred us to make a written contract that might be discovered? What would that do for your career prospects, Adam?”
Pyre stepped back a few paces, and his voice lowered. “My name is Pyre,” he said, looking at the ground.

“Our contract is negotiable, and you’ll return tomorrow morning for your payment.”

“I need that money.” Pyre’s tone was subdued.

Tam smiled. “Why is that, Pyre?”

“You don’t understand.”

“You might be interested to know that your dealer gets his supply from me. Or, rather, my operation. If it’s drugs you need, they can be provided in lieu of your 10% bonus. And they can be delivered immediately.”

Pyre looked up, eyes blazing. “I’m not a fucking junkie!” he raised his hands in front of him. His hands began to glow red, and his amulet pulsed harder. “Pyrum Arcan-“

In a move quicker than the eye could follow, Tam rose, and with his artificial hand backhanded Pyre across the face before the youth could get all the words out. He flew across the room and into the drywall, which gave before the impact. Pyre was left to pick himself up off the floor, under the eye of Tam, who was breathing hard.

“You will never speak to me in that tone, Adam. You are young, stupid, and your powers, while impressive to humans have no effect on me whatsoever. I picked you up off the street when you were shaking through withdrawal, gave you a place to sleep, food to eat, and all the pleasures of the flesh. You belong to me, and don’t you ever forget it.” Tam sat down gently, as Pyre pulled over his hood.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’ll leave.”

“Before you go,” said Tam. “Your services may be required tonight.”

“What for?”

“I’m bringing in some… sensitive cargo. It would be beneficial to have you around. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Will I be paid?”

“Double and a half your previous fee, upon safe return of the cargo to here.”

“Where?”

“Come back here an hour before dusk. Take anything you need on your way out. Thank you for your patience,” smiled Tam.

Pyre left without a word.

*****

Phantasm, or James Jones to the people that new him in his unofficial capacity, looked around the table at his assembled detachment. Evan, Sonic Scream to the newspapers, sat with his feet up on the table, drinking a cup of what smelled like the strongest coffee in the world, and hummed to himself, a sound that was reminiscent of a full orchestra being played at very low volume through a speaker. Julia, or Blink, was reading a newspaper that James guessed had been propped up by her in the next room, she was simply reading through the wall. Hank the Tank was looking intently at his egg and cheese sandwich, as if hoping it would spontaneously multiply, and Helen, otherwise known as The Wasp, was fiddling with a PDA. While she did not have any superpowers to speak of, she was a brilliant engineer. She had designed a rocket pack, as well as two ‘stingers’, much like foot-long, edged hypodermic needles that allowed her to fly and sting, much like her namesake. She was a slight blonde lady, still young, but had distinguished herself in the Detachment as a quick, logical thinker.

Finally, David, affectionately termed The Human Bomb, was exploding and reconstituting his finger, and getting frustrated that no-one was paying more attention to him. David was able to convert parts of his matter into energy, and was essentially fire- and blast-proof, allowing him to go off like a bomb and emerge unscathed, as well as setting himself on fire at will. It was joked that a genie had appeared to him in his youth, and young David, being a bit of a show-off, had asked for the power that would gain him the most transfixed stares- the ability to turn into a mushroom cloud. Always the attention whore, David was another member of the detachment in his early twenties.

Finally, the young student called Mike sat at the end of the table, looking sheepish.

James spoke up. “Alright, Dave stop blowing yourself up, Julia pay attention. First, new kid, introduce yourself.”

Mike stood hesitantly, seeming to cower form the gazes of the other heroes. “I’m Mike Johnston. I’m in my first year of studies, and I’ve been placed in hero Detachment 17 for my practicum. I’m here for two weeks to observe what you guys do in a typical week.”

James nodded. “Alruight, just so you’re not wondering, I can walk through walls and teleport, Evan there was control over sound, Julia there-“

“Does she shoot lasers out of her eyes? Is that why she has the glasses?” asked Mike, looking excited. Then, remembering himself, he turned beet red.
Julia, however, laughed. “No. The glasses are for an astigmatism, and I hate contacts. I have X-ray vision, although without my glasses, my regular vision is pretty poor. My powers apparently don’t work like you’d expect.”

James continued. “Helen there can fly and impale people, Hank the Tank crushes things, and David blows himself up at the slightest provocation, so don’t shock him.” Taking advantage of the focus, David set his hand alight. “Seriously,” continued James, “stop that. You’re annoying.” He turned to Mike. “Just so we’re not wondering, what do you do?”

“I talk to things.”

The room was quiet. Finally, Hank giggled. “Me too.”

Mike looked affronted. “I talk to objects. Like your belt, which you used to beat your son with after he stole another child’s bike at school. In two years, you’re going to lose it when you go swimming; it’ll get buried in the sand at Thuringer Beach and you’ll never see it again.”

This time, the silence was amazed. James broke the silence first. “Alright, so that’s pretty cool. What do you call yourself?”

“The Oracle.”

James nodded. “Alright, Kid Prophet, let’s show you what we do on a regular day.” The briefing began.

A/N: Again, feedback, please!

Very good start.. Please keep going, it's getting stronger the more you write.

Chapter 3

Lucky Drycleaners was a fairly average business in most respects. It was just off the main drag in the town of Greenhill, now incorporated into the mega city of Silver Bay. It was a sleepy community, with most of its residents commuting to work in the industrial burgs to the north or the commercial office towers nearer the bay itself. The fact that outside this small flat building with a large front window and a chalk sign on the street advertising a ‘3 for 2’ deal there were four police cruisers caused most passers-by to stop and have a look.

Sonic Scream stood on the pavement immediately outside the shop window in full costume, sipping a latte he had sent Kid Prophet up the street for. Kid Prophet, for his part, was looking darkly at Sonic Scream, as if willing the latte to reach up and scald the roof of his mouth. Evan hoped sincerely the kid couldn’t do that, and put down the paper cup. Clearing his throat, he projected his voice in a sound like a megaphone, talking to a group of tourists who were across the street and snapping photos.

“Move along now, nothing to see here. Yes, you with the camera, I’m talking to you. Stop taking pictures. Yes, you. With the red shirt.” The man seemed thoroughly bewildered, unsure of how the thin man in the costume was making that much noise. Evan guessed that he came from a city that didn’t have a strong hero population, but the ignorance was beginning to get to him. “The one with the camera, for Christ’s sake- there’s nothing to see here. And why are you tourists in Greenhill anyway? Take Highway 12 south for twenty minutes, and you’ll be downtown where there’s things you can take pictures of without me yelling at you. Or threatening to throw you in jail.”

The man Evan was talking to continued to snap pictures, so Evan turned to his side, nodding to Tank. The enormous man, dressed in a garish red and yellow spandex costume with a yellow T splashed across the front lumbered across the street. The tourist now realized that taking pictures of a crime scene after being asked not to was not the best idea, but was riveted in place as all seven feet of Tank loomed over him.

“Hank Riviera, Hero Detachment 17, Silver Bay Police Department. I’ll need to confiscate that camera, sir.” Meekly, the man held it upwards, as Hank flashed his badge. Without hesitation, he crushed it in his palm and dropped in a garbage can. “Thank you for your co-operation.” He re-crossed the street, and stood beside Evan, as the crowd began to dissipate.

“Thanks, Hank,” said Evan, tossing his now empty cup into the garbage.

“What I’m here for.”

At that moment, Julia sidled up to the two, leaning on the chalkboard outside the store. The place was still filled with regular policemen, analysing evidence, looking for signs of forced entry, and collecting evidence. Evan, Hank, Julia, and the kid Mike had been assigned to check out the scene of the crime, to see if there was anything that regular police would miss, as well as it being valuable on the job training for Mike that would keep him out of any danger. “I’ve been talking to Inspector Henson, we should be allowed in fairly soon. If we can try to keep from making spectacles of ourselves during crowd control, that would be appreciated as well,” she said, keeping the reprimand from being scathing with a slight smile.

Evan and Hank nodded. “So what have you seen without going in?” asked Hank.

“Nothing too interesting- I could describe it to you, but you’d may as well see it for yourself- here comes Henson.” True to her word, the Inspector came through the door at that very moment. He was short, slightly overweight, with a puffy moustache that called to mind a walrus.

Julia spoke first. “What do we know, Inspector?”

“Victim is Lim Choi, immigrated here from Korea thirty years ago. Wife, three grown children, one granddaughter.” He paused. “By all accounts a great guy, gave to charity, pillar of the community.” The mood grew sombre. “Whoever did it broke a window latch in the kitchen at the very back of the building- the Choi family lived in the building. This was definitely not a regular murder- no fire damage to anything in the scene except the victim and the chair he was sitting in.”

Evan nodded. “That’s good and bad, we’re not dealing with anyone who can teleport or walk through walls, those guys are hard to nail down. But it’s definitely a super?”

Henson nodded. “Why wouldn’t it be? You’ll know better than us when you look at it. The room is down the hall behind the store counter, second on your right. Let me know if you need anything,” he added.

Evan wanted to watch to see if he pulled out a donut, but was swept into the building behind Blink and Tank, with the Kid Prophet trailing him, looking nervous. Evan spoke without turning his head, but Mike heard every word clearly. “First live crime scene, kid?”

“Murder, yes. I’ve seen robberies.”

“Don’t be worried, there’s no body or anything.”

Mike gave him a reproachful look that was totally lost on the back of Evan’s head. “Do you think I’m five? I know the procedures, but it still weirds me out. Some guy died in here.”

Evan shrugged. “It happens. We’re here to fix it, such as we can.”

Mike stopped. “You’re a jackass.”

Evan really did turn around this time, and regarded Mike with contempt. The hallway through which they were now walking was dark and cramped, with illumination coming from an old incandescent bulb in the ceiling. The carpet was a dark floral print, much like something one would expect to see in an old hotel, and the walls were panelled in a dark wood. Julia and Hank had disappeared from the hallway, likely into the room where the old man died. Deciding against speaking, Evan entered the room, and Mike swept in behind him.

The room was much like the corridor, dark and floral. A single bulb illuminated it, and the unmistakeable smell of charred meat was still present. Mike gagged slightly, but the veterans simply looked around the room. It seemed pretty normal aside from that- a desk covered in papers, a bookcase filled with titles in what was apparently Korean, and a few assorted knickknacks- shoes, umbrellas a dipping bird, and a copper coffee pot shoved haphazardly into the corner. The next obvious thing was a massive pattern burned into the carpet- it took the shape of a star with eight points, surrounded by a circle that touched each one. In the centre there was an obtuse squiggle of some kind, much of which was blocked off by the desk that sat in the middle of the floor. It was clear from the pile of ash on top of it that the centre of this pattern as where the victim was sitting.

“Definitely magic,” said Hank, looking at the carpet.

“Yeah, this isn’t a fire-throwing mutant, unless they’re also a painter,” concurred Evan.

“Anyone seen that symbol before?” asked Julia, looking up. The three men shook their heads.

“Looks like a mandala, almost,” said Mike.

Julia turned her head to look at him. “What?”

“Buddhist pattern, used in meditation. It’s designed to focus the mind to help it clear. The outside pattern not so much, but the squiggles in the centre remind me of pictures I’ve seen in textbooks.”

“You study Buddhism?” asked Evan, incredulously.

“We have to study origins of superpowers in history classes at the Academy, yes. Exactly so we can recognize things like this. Buddhism has produced a lot of people we would consider in modern times to be superheroes- enlightened people with extraordinary mental powers.”

Evan whistled. “Been a long time since I took those classes.”

Julia laughed. “It hasn’t been that long, you just have no memory for anything that isn’t taught to you at knifepoint.”

Hank raised his hand. “If it is a mandala, does that help us? How many magic-based superheroes are registered in the city?”

Julia nodded. “Probably not many- a lot of magic powers come from artefacts and so anyone can use them. If whoever did this was given an artefact that let him cast spells involving fire, there’d be no record of him. It’s a stupid loophole, but that’s the way it goes. Hey, hold on- Mike, you said you can talk to objects, right?”

Tank flushed, but Mike nodded.

Julia gestured towards to desk. “I’m not sure if this is how it works, but… can you ask the desk what happened?”

Evan snorted, and Mike shot him a dirty look. “I’d rather not.”

“Why? Its just a table,” laughed Evan.

Mike seemed to completely change tack, forcing on a polite smile as he addressed Evan. “Where do tables come from, sir?”

“This one looks like it was from Ikea.”

“And where did Ikea get it?”

“A factory?”

“Which makes them out of…”

A pause. “Oh.”

Mike nodded. “Now, if you were standing up in a forest, and someone came along, chopped your feet off, then pulled you over, dismembered you, and used your bones to make a table, would you have a lot of pleasant things to say about the world in general? I’m sorry if I don’t find my power as amusing as you do.”

The room was quiet, and Julia moved to touch Mike’s arm. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but anything you can find out would be appreciated.” The young man paused for a minute and nodded. He closed his eyes, and opened his mind, seeking out the table, running his mind along its sides, looking in its cupboards, and eventually…

“A great screaming fire! Chainsaws and axes and pulling me down! Scream! Terror! I stop moving I am ripped apart I am turned and I relax and am free and stay in one place and grow roots into fibres and colour and absorb smoke from flaming sticks and I am! I relax, I breathe. A black hooded demon, hands glow like the ends of tobacco plants left in an ashtray to smoke and sputter out and death beside me and pain and I am here!”

Mike forced his eyes open, broke the connection, and found himself lying on the floor, with Julia’s head, warm and maternal, looking down on him. “Michael? Mike? Are you alright? What did it tell you?”

His face was pale, he was breathing heavily and sweating some. His eyes appeared unfocused, but he shook his head to clear it, and rose gently. He felt a pain in his knees, which he assumed came from the fall. “A black hooded figure that threw fire from his hands. Most of what the table said to me was about it being taken from nature, but it was very specific about the black hooded figure. I saw him in my mind’s eye- gaunt, pale, like Death, fire coming from his hands. He had something glowing around his neck, I don’t know what it was.”

Julia smiled. “Are you feeling alright?” Mike nodded in the affirmative, and she looked round the room once more. “Before we leave, then- you boys notice anything else unusual in this room?” her expression lightened the expression in the room, that had grown very dark since Mike’s séance.

Tank chuckled deeply. “That’s a loaded question. What can you see that we can’t?”

“This.” She reached over and pulled a book out of the shelf, causing the entire shelf to spin around slowly, revealing a large room beside it, full of crates.

“Rotating library?” asked Mike, his face lighting up again. He was regaining some of his colour.

“Cliché,” dismissed Evan, and strode forwards. The room was dark, but what he could see was full of crates that looked to be about a metre on a side, and seemed extremely heavy. He tried moving one by pushing it, and it went nowhere. He cocked his head, carefully judging the echoes in the room. “It’s about four-fifths full with boxes, about 10 metres deep and 20 long- it must run all the way to the very front of the store. What’s in here?”

Tank crossed over to one of the crates and picked it up as if it was Styrofoam. He placed it down gently, and pulled off the top of the crate with two fingers. Inside were more fireworks than Evan had ever seen in his entire life. “Holy Fourth of July,” he said aloud.

Julia shook her head, and pointed. “Tank, take those fireworks off- the crate has a fake bottom. Look under it.”

Hank nodded, picked up the crate, and turned it upside down. The fireworks all fell out, and he smacked the crate on the back- with a loud snap the false bottom gave way. Seconds later, a rain of AK-47s, close to 10, fell on the floor, clattering away. Evan flinched reflexively, but Julia looked triumphant.

“It appears Mr. Choi was selling more than dry-cleaning services.”

As always, please leave comments.

This is getting very interesting indeed.

Chapter 4

The old screen door slammed as Adam Applegate, insistent on being called Pyre by his contemporaries, entered his house. The floor was linoleum, with wood panelling on the wall, and old photographs on the wall. It seemed as if it had dropped fully-formed out of the late 1970s, complete with orange plastic furniture in the kitchen, which could be seen form the entranceway. Pyre felt his feet slide along the shag carpeting as he entered deeper into the house.

“Mom?”

He continued to walk, removing his full length cloak as he did so, revealing a regular boy dressed in jeans and a striped rugby shirt. He tucked his pendant into his shirt.

“Mom?”

The house seemed quiet- she had probably stepped out to go to the store for milk. He hated to think of his mother living alone, but he did need his own space. He crept further into the house, and put his foot on the stairs at the same time as the back door slammed shut, and Adam’s mother entered the house, seemingly carrying gardening implements with her, judging from the racket. She spoke to him from the kitchen, their conversation being carried through the main hallway and halfway up the staircase to here Pyre crouched.

“Adam, are you there?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Where have you been?”

“I was only out for a couple of nights. I told you, I was staying with a friend.”

“You’ve been gone for a week! I would have called the police, but you’re 18, and the last time they told me they couldn’t do anything!”

“I’m sorry, mom.”

“Not sorry enough! You’re going to give me a heart attack!”

“I’m sorry.”

“So you keep saying! Why don’t you ever stay home, go out shopping for your mother, make me dinner every once in a while? I did so much for you growing up-“

“Yes, mom!” shouted Pyre, raising his voice for the first time. “I know. Thank you.”

“So are you staying this time?”

A long pause, and Pyre almost regretted his words. “No, Mom.”

There was silence from the bottom of the stairs. Pyre rushed up them, went into his room, and grabbed what few things he needed and threw them in his bag. A few notebooks, a pencil, a small zip-locked bag of cocaine, and a few old clothes. He couldn’t continue to ‘live’ in his house; he knew it wasn’t fair. I might get gunned down tonight for old man Tam, and I’m not going to have it on my mom’s head. If I tell her I’m leaving now I’ll be fine. It was a mantra he’d been repeating to himself in some form for three months, since he had first met Tam. He had known at that moment that he had real power, but with it came real danger. A danger he would not have affect his mother. Looking around his room, he slipped out the door, and walked down the stairs.

There was the sound from the kitchen of coffee being stirred, and Pyre hoped there was not the sound of a middle-aged woman sniffling. He peeked his head inside the door. “Mom, I’m going now.”

She said nothing.

“You know I love you.”

Again, silence.

“Thank you for everything. For… for working so hard for me.”

Finally, she mustered the strength to look up, her eyes rimmed red with salty tears that were beginning to well, threatening to overwhelm her carefully crafted defences. “What did I do to make you run away?”

“Mom! It’s… it’s not like that. It’s not you. It’s… just something that happened. I was pulled, not pushed.”

She looked down at her coffee, and pushed it aside. She placed her head in her hands. “I killed you, Adam. I loved you so much I pushed you away. And now you’re outside dealing drugs and God knows what else. I’m not stupid, you know- I can see the signs. But I didn’t know what to do, how to fix it, so I hoped you would stay and we could go back to how it was before- just us two, happy in our own little world. Going to the park on sunny days, going to the shops on rainy ones. And now you’re going out in the streets to get… get gunned down or overdose or something!”

Adam gripped his hands and closed his eyes. He would not cry as well. “It wasn’t you, mom.”

She looked up again, this time tears running freely down her face, pooling in the worry lines around her mouth. “Don’t leave me alone, Adam. I’ve always had you.”

He turned and pulled his cloak from a coat hook. Not trusting himself to speak, he turned and left the house, the screen door clattering behind him.

*****

St. Aloysius Catholic Church was a simple brick building in the classic style. It had been built by residents in the 1800s, and although the city had changed around it, giving way to simple bungalows in the suburban explosion of the 1950s, the church had remained unchanged. The church council had recently footed the bill for new stained glass windows, depicting a shot of Jesus being baptised in the River Jordan. The bell rang eleven in the morning, and a flock of small birds rose from the belfry and whipped out across the neighbourhood like jet-black leaves in an autumn wind.

Adam trudged up the slight stairs to the heaven oaken door, and read the schedule. Seeing the sanctuary open for confession, he entered in, removing his cloak and dropping his bag at the door. He looked around- he had not set foot in the Church since he had dropped out of school more than two years ago. He had not planned to come today, but something had drawn him in, a deep desire to talk to someone who didn’t know him, who could not judge him.

He trudged forwards, and sat in a booth, pulling the curtain shut behind him. He needed to think for a moment to recall the proper words, but they came to him smoothly after that, a honed reflex. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” He paused. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Pyre, hard-edged street kid, sitting on a plush bench in a confessional. He chuckled aloud and moved to leave. “I can’t go through with this,” he muttered.

Before he had gone a step, a voice from the other side of the grille topped him. “Stop, my child. Something has called you here today, and it would not do you well to ignore it.”

Pyre prepared to laugh it off, but something in the priest’s tone stopped him. Certainty, he thought. He’s absolutely sure of his place in the world. That’s what I need. Quietly, he sat again.

“When was your last confession, child?”

Pyre thought back. “Two years ago.”

“What are your sins?”

Pyre paused. Too many to list. He decided to go through the Ten Commandments, a trick he had been taught in his childhood. “I have dishonoured God. Used his name in vain. Doubted him.” He paused, but the priest said nothing, clearly waiting for the rest. “I’ve worked on the Sabbath,” he said, chuckling- a minor transgression, but apparently important to God. He thought through the list, and felt the grin slide off his faith. The next commandment cut him like a knife. “I have dishonoured my mother. I- I left my house, and she’s heartbroken.” He continued. “I’ve stolen to pay for drugs, and stolen drugs. I’ve never robbed anyone defenceless- like I’ve never taken a lady’s purse, but shoplifted things.” He wondered briefly why he was giving details- didn’t God know? “I’ve lied, and I’ve wanted things that aren’t mine. A lot.”

There was a long pause. “Father, I have one more sin.”

“Speak, child,” came the calm, sure voice of the priest.

It steeled Pyre’s will, solidified it. Is this what God is? Courage to look at yourself when you wish you would disappear? “Last night, Father, I killed a man.”

“That, child, is a very serious crime. Are you certain? Were you simply there when someone was killed?”

“No, father, I killed him myself. W- with my own hands.”

“Was it out of self-defence?” his tone had taken on a harder edge, and Pyre’s natural reflexes kicked in. He spoke to the priest in a forceful whisper.

“Aren’t you fucking listening? I killed him!”

The priest was quiet. “This, child is a serious crime.”

“I know. Fuck.”

The priest seemed to be weighing his words, unsure of how much to press the point with the angry youth in the next booth. “I see you understand what you have done. But, child, that man had a family. Had parents, may have had children. May have had a wife, had good friends. You must understand what this must have done to them.”

Pyre’s head fell. “I- I know.” A pause. “I know. What can I do?”

“First child, you must seek penance from God. Then, your path is clear.”

“It is?”

“You must go to the police, child.”

“What? Why?”

The priest’s tone again hardened. “The Lord forgives all, but we are not Him. It takes us time to heal. Imagine, Heaven forbid, your mother was murdered. What would you wish to do to the person who killed her?”

“An eye for an eye. I’d kill him.”

“That is because you are human. Imagine how the family of the person you killed feels now.”

“If they’re going to kill me, why do I want to confess?”

The priest’s tone was remorseful; he was seemingly disappointed Pyre was not catching on more quickly. “You cannot undo what was done. Nothing you say, no matter how sincere, will bring that person back to this realm. But you can start to rectify the damage. Contact the police, and give this family some closure. A wound will never heal unless it is sutured, and you denying this family that closure is running sandpaper over that wound every day of their lives.”

Pyre nodded. The weight of his actions was beginning to become apparent to him. It was not until this moment that he had thought of his own mother, weeping as he walked through the door, connecting it to the mother who must be crying over the body of Lim Choi.

“Child, your penance before the Lord is ten rosaries. I implore you while praying to listen to His, in whatever way He speaks, to show you the right path to redemption. I will pray for you.”

Pyre stepped out of the booth, and picked up a rosary from a small table. He stumbled over to the votives, collapsed to his knees, and began to pray. He thought of his mother, even now sobbing at the breakfast table where she had fed him countless meals. He thought of Lim Choi’s wife and children, now without a husband and father. He thought of Choi’s soul, looking down in horror, separated from his body. And he thought of his own soul, even now being inscribed in St. Peter’s book, consigned to an eternity in Hell. Finally, he cried, sniffles and choking sobs echoing in the sanctuary.

A/N: I didn’t really mean to write another chapter today, but this just sort of leapt out at me. Feeback, as always, please.

Intresting. I'd put money down that says being the pentient murderer is not good for your health.

WOW.
That was totally out of the blue.. and all the better for it.

Chapter 5

The afternoon had worn on long as Pyre finally emerged into the daylight. The sun was casting sloping shadows off the spires of St. Aloysius, dark tendrils reaching out over the verdant trees of the courtyard. Birds sang cheerfully in the trees, the sounds of children released from school echoed around the ancient architecture. He had spent three hours prostrated in prayer in front of cherry-coloured votives, not praying, merely reflecting. He had looked into his soul and seen merely a pallid reflection of his face staring back at him, so he left. Leaving the sanctuary, he felt cold grip him, even as we walked quickly in the sun’s cradling warmth. His black cloak snapped at his feet, and he began wandering back towards the city centre.

From St. Aloysius, the city opened up beneath him- Silver bay itself reached out to the horizon, accompanied by the grasping fingers of downtown buildings. The brown and grey warrens of the city melded into the hills of the suburbs, lush and green with trees and gardens. Pyre took the hill quickly, passed by bright yellow school busses delivering children back home.

It was close to a half-hour’s walk back to the Porpentine, Pyre’s nominal home. The weight of his backpack grew heavier on his shoulder, bearing down the last remnants of his old life. Every step now carried the added weight of permanence; he might live in Silver Bay the rest of his life, but he would never return home. Home existed to Pyre not only as a place, but as a time, before his life had become jumbled and blurry. Black was different from white- heroes were not villains. He knew now that that life could no longer exist.

And so when he thrust open the door of the Porpentine, and slung his backpack into one of the dilapidated booths, he was not slinging away a backpack- he was changing his life. A shadowy voice spoke to him, its tones seeming to coalesce out of the newly-displaced dust.

“Pyre?” It was Tam.

“Yes.” Pyre surprised himself. His voice was cold, flat, as if he simply had no energy to put intonation into it. The soul that usually animated his words was missing.

“What are you doing back here?” Tam’s voice was not unfriendly, but definitely not welcoming, either.

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“Something.”

Now Tam’s figure was seen coming down the dark back stairs- footsteps were heard directly overhead. The Colombian was not alone in the building. “Where have you been?”

“Out.”

Tam stepped into the light. His face was pale and sweaty- he looked exerted, but not in the physical sense, purely mental. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” And nothing was, just different. Irrevocably different.

Tam again stepped closer, and grasped Pyre’s face with his metallic arm. Pyre did not flinch, did not respond. “Where did you go?”

A long pause, and Tam squeezed tighter.

“Who have you seen, and what did they tell you?”

Pyre’s eyes were flint, and he stared down the other man. However, after a brief moment, he looked away, and down. Tam smiled.

“You went home, didn’t you?”

Pyre now turned away.

“You went home, and now you can’t go back. What do I say about burning bridges?”

Pyre spun around, his cloak dropping to the ground. He held in his hand a perfectly formed ball of flame. “What do you know about burning anything?”

Tam laughed, and slapped at the ball with his metal hand. It dissipated immediately. He crossed the room in front of Pyre, and sat in another of the dilapidated booths. A cloud of dust rose around him, but he seemed not to notice or care. He gestured towards the plush seat on the other side of him. “Sit down.”

Pyre did so, still automatically. His will seemed to be missing, taking a spectral vacation. He began to draw absently in the dust.

Tam broke the silence first. “I know what you’re thinking.”

Pyre looked up and then back down, continuing his drawing. “No, you don’t.”

“I had a home as well.”

That stopped Pyre. He again caught tam’s gaze, and held it. “What happened?”

“I could never fulfil myself there, so I left. I have not returned since. Not for my parents’ deaths, not for my sister’s wedding, not for my nieces’ and nephews’ graduations. When I left, I was made out to be a villain as well.”

“By who?”

“Everyone. People thought I was abandoning them. When I made it onto the news as a ‘drug lord’, my family called me in tears, asking to know if it was true.”

“And it was.”

Tam grinned slyly. “From a certain point of view. Ever watched Star Wars?”

“About a million times.”

“Yoda is right. Truth is told from a certain point of view. I am a drug lord, yes. But that gives me power. And with my power, I can do great things. Did you know that I built a school in Colombia for poor children in Bogotá? You won’t find that on the news reports. Sometimes we do questionable things, but if in the end they are worth it, does that not justify them?”

“The end justifies the means.”

“Exactly.”

Pyre tried to distract himself with dust patterns again, but after a moment he turned back to the other man. “I killed a man yesterday.”

Tam nodded. “You did. On my orders.”

“He had a family.”

“He did. What did you know about Lim Choi?”

More silence. Pyre’s voice was subdued.

“He had a wife and children. I passed them on my way in. He liked books. He owned a drycleaners’.”

“What if I told you that Lim Choi was an arms dealer, one of the most prominent in the city. He supplied three street gangs with automatic weapons that they used to kill each other. Last year, there was a turf war broke out on a playground at around midnight. Four gang members died, but there was also a young girl caught in the crossfire, walking home from a date at the movies. She is now confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Choi dealt arms for profit and someone innocent paid.”

“Isn’t that the fault of the gangs, though?”

“Guns don’t kill people, people kill people?”

Pyre nodded. “That’s what they say.”

“You could kill me with nothing but a few magic words, and I you with a punch. That isn’t true for most people. The fact is that if Choi had not dealt arms, that would likely have been a knife fight, and an innocent girl could have use of her legs.”

“You deal arms as well. How is it different?”

“Right mindfulness. You are a Buddhist, are you not?”

Pyre nodded. “Nominally.”

“It comes down to our intentions. I deal arms to worthy causes. People fighting for freedom from oppression against unjust enemies. People who have nothing, who need a method to stand up to an institution that is crushing them. I stand for what is good, and what is right- I stand for freedom. I make sure that right causes prevail, and unworthy ones fail.”

“Why me?”

“You have enormous power, Pyre. With your help, I can ensure that evil has no chance to take hold. We can spread freedom. You can be an instrument of honour. Sometimes killing will be necessary to defend the rights of others, and sometimes not. But this can be your new life, this can be how you find fulfilment. Join me, not merely as a contract killer for money, but to strike a blow for something greater. This, here, this can be your chance.”

Pyre looked around the room, the dust-strained sunlight breaking through grey cracked windows. He smelt the burnt flesh he had left behind at Choi’s, heard the screams of his wife, animal cries of anguish. He thought of a girl sitting in class in a wheelchair, for whom life would never be the same. He thought of his mother crying, and he heard the words of the priest echo around his head. He saw karmic scales tipping, and saw his chance to stand up for something. He extended his hand to Tam.

“For honour.”

Tam reached back, this time with his flesh-and-blood hand. “For honour.”

A/N: Sorry for the hiatus. Feedback please.