Tyler Hanson's Blog: Public Servants, page 2

Family Values, Pt. 1 – The Case of the Missing Singer

I cleared the sleep from my eyes, stifling a yawn as I sized up the woman who stood on the other side of the door. Dark-skinned and toned, hair tied in Bantu knots, wearing some kind of military fatigues with a penchant for forest green. My eyes drifted to the sidearm holstered near her shoulder – a Colt, maybe? Either way, I didn’t blame her. This part of town had its share of dangers. 

“Sorry to wake you, mate,” the woman apologized, offering a half-smile. “I’m just starting to run out of options, and I could use your professional services.” 

Sighing, I gestured her inside, opening the door wider to allow her passage. She wandered into my office, absently examining my unflattering clutter. I closed the door, locking it behind me, and turned to her, hands on my hips. 

“So, how can I help you this evening?” 

She turned to me, offering her hand. “The name’s Piston. I’m a second-class SPI working under the Public Servants. I’ve come here about a missing persons case.” 

I crossed my arms in front of my chest suspiciously. “The Public Servants don’t usually reach out to me for help, and I’ve certainly never heard of you before. Fill in the blanks, please.” 

Piston hung her head for a moment, taking a step closer as she lowered her voice. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the explosion at The Living Mortar’s home last month?” 

“Yeah,” I replied. “Lots of people dead. Treble Clef is still in the hospital. Rumor in my circles is that The Living Mortar did it himself.” 

Piston grimaced. “What if I told you those rumors are true?” 

“Really?” I struggled to mask my surprise. “Why the hell would he do that?” 

She sat in the chair across from my desk, crossing one leg over her thigh. “Inspector, there’s a new villain in town. She’s been staying under the radar, using sonic technology to subliminally control minds. The Living Mortar was, unfortunately, one of her victims.” 

“Ah, I see.” I walked around the desk, sitting in my own chair to face her. “And what happened to our mind-controlled friend?” 

“He’s in a safe place,” she explained, “where he can’t be seen and he can’t hurt anyone.” 

“So, you’re, what, doing the Public Servants’ dirty work?” I asked. 

Piston chuckled. “Yeah, mate. I suppose that sums it up pretty well.” 

“Let me guess,” I continued. “You want me to find out who this mystery villain is?” 

She shook her head. “We’ve got that covered. At least, we know who she’s been pretending to be. Erica Leroux, the pop star.” 

“A celebrity supervillain,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now that’s never been done before.” 

“Yes, yes, it’s a bit cliché,” Piston admitted, “but we have bigger problems. Last week, she escaped our attempts to place her in custody. So, it’s not who she is that worries us, but where. We believe she’s attempting to leave the city.” 

“Well . . .” I plucked an ink pen from the surface of my desk, twirling it between my fingers. “If she wants to do that, there’s not many secure options nowadays. I have a hunch where she’d go first.” 

“I hear you have pretty good hunches,” Piston quipped, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a bit old to be a product of the Great War, aren’t you?” 

“First of all, that’s not very polite,” I chastised half-heartedly. “Second, I served in the Great War, as a saboteur for Western Europe. My powers predate the war.” 

“Interesting . . .” she cocked her head. “You know, my grandfather served on a special unit back during World War Two. He encountered some pretty strange shit, including what we believe to be Black Pharaoh’s first official sighting. In the aftermath of the Great War of 2022, the UN told us about lasting nuclear radiation from the bombs that were initially used, but my grandfather insisted they’d used something else. Something more . . . supernatural.” 

She leaned forward. 

“Is that what you are, Inspector? Something supernatural?” 

I smirked. “That’s what it says on the door, doesn’t it?” 

Standing up, I turned to a large trunk pressed against the wall, opening it to reveal a disheveled pile of tools, weapons, and electronics. I closed my eyes, honing in on The Call, and blindly reached into the box, letting my instincts guide me. My hand found an item in the box, then two, and I gently placed them on the floor, pausing at the sixth object as The Call faded. Opening my eyes, I glanced down to see what my precognitive instincts had chosen for me for this case. 

“Baby powder,” I muttered. “My Walther PPK handgun, of course. I assumed this would be dangerous. A strobe flashlight . . . an emergency glass-breaker . . . an MP3 player . . . ah, I knew it.” 

I picked up the last object, a small box of bullets hand-made from the foundations of Rouen’s Notre-Dame Cathedral.  

“The Midnight Gang,” I announced. 

“Oh, I’ve heard of them,” Piston commented. “They’re a vampire crime syndicate, right?” 

I began to pocket the tools I’d selected, shrugging a tan trench coat over my clothes. “More than that. The Midnight Gang were turned at the height of the Prohibition Era. 1930’s mobsters, thieves, smugglers and killers, turned immortal and set loose on the unsuspecting public. If Erica is trying to get out of the city, I’d bet all the dollars in my left pocket that she’s going to appeal to them.” 

“I’d be reassured,” responded Piston, “if I thought you had any dollars.” 

________________ 

We rattled up to the entrance of a lounge basked in crimson light, my Volkswagen Beetle rumbling to a stop near the entrance. I pulled out my Walther, and Piston and I met eyes, nodding to one another. I climbed out of the vehicle first, and she quickly followed, stepping in front of me so that my gun was visibly aimed at her back. We approached the guard at the door, who looked at me inquisitively. I gestured to Piston with my gun. 

“Juice delivery for the Midnight Gang.” 

The guard nodded, opening the door and letting us through. We entered a dimly-lit club, covered in red-and-black furniture and filled with a smoky haze. A bar stood against the wall to our left, but the liquor bottles seemed to all be filled with blood, each container labeled with a first and last name. As we stepped inside, a dozen yellow-eyed men in tweed suits and fedoras stepped out of the lounge’s shadowy corners, most of whom sported Tommy guns.  

“What do we have here, boys?” one of the vampires asked in a thick New York accent. 

A thin, weaselly man stepped up to the speaker, muttering in a low voice. “She said juice delivery.” 

“I think she’s a vampire, too, Boss,” a third mobster spoke up. “Look at her eyes. They’re yellow, like ours.” 

“That’s right,” I announced, shoving Piston forward a little. “I’m more of a loner, but I know a fellow enemy when I see it. This lady here is the one who killed off most of the Last Patriots.” 

The man they called “Boss” cocked his head a little. “No skin off our nose, really. They’re fellow vampires, sure, but they’re a little too hung up on skin color. We’re business professionals.” 

A wave of soft chuckles passed over the crowd before he continued. “So, what do you want?” 

I kicked Piston in the back, knocking her too her knees. “Take her off my hands. Make her suffer for what she did. We gotta send a message, right?” 

Boss narrowed his eyes. “Screech, Baby Doll, bring her over here.” 

The weaselly vampire, along with a tall, muscular one, approached Piston, lifting her by her arms and carrying her into the middle of the group. They dropped her to the carpeted floor, and two other vampires guarded her with Tommy guns closely aimed.  

“I sense you’re a business professional, too,” Boss said to me. “We got vampire revenge, yadda yadda. But what do you want?” 

“I want to find a friend of mine who’s gone missing,” I replied, lowering my Walther. “Erica Leroux.” 

“Ah.” Boss smiled. “The Phantom. We’ve been in touch lately. She claimed some people would come looking for her.” 

He tapped the side of his head. “I don’t suppose those eyes are yellow for some other reason, are they? Maybe you’re an SPI, hmm?” 

Piston glanced up at me quickly, before the others could notice. 

“Seems like an awful coincidence,” I responded curtly. “Besides, I brought you something nice. I’m asking for a simple reward.” 

Boss sighed, glancing at the weaselly vampire. “Screech, you talked to her last. Where were we sending her out?” 

“Eastern border, boss,” Screech said. “She wanted safe passage to the East Coast Wasteland. We have her waiting for our smuggler in an old meat-packing plant nearby.” 

“There,” Boss interrupted, nodding at me. “You got your reward. Now, leave us to enjoy our new juice.” 

“Oh, I think you have enough,” I retorted. “Let’s get out of here, Piston.” 

Piston smirked as she slowly rose to her feet. The pair of gunmen on either side of her took aim, but before they could fire, she back-kicked one of them across the room, simultaneously ripping the Tommy gun from the hands of the other. She swept the weapon back and forth as she backed away from the vampires, inching closer to me. As she did, I raised my Walther again, keeping an eye on the mobsters’ movements.  

“We’re going to leave,” I announced as Piston joined me. “And everyone gets to live to ruin lives another day.” 

“I don’t think so,” Boss angrily responded, snapping his fingers. “Screech, handle this.” 

“Him?” laughed Piston as the weaselly vampire stepped forward, opening his mouth.  

“Piston,” I whispered, readying my knees. “Get down.” 

Screech took a deep breath before emitting a sharp cry, one reminiscent of his namesake. The cry grew in pitch and volume, and the bottles of blood behind the bar shattered in a shimmering wave – a wave which rapidly approached us. I grabbed Piston’s shirt and pulled her to the ground as the distorted air passed over our heads, the vibrations rattling my teeth. After a few seconds, the cry ceased, and I looked up to see Screech taking another breath.  

“Nope,” I said, firing three shots from my Walther into the vampire’s torso. 

Blood almost immediately sprayed from Screech’s open mouth, and he clutched his chest, stumbling backwards. His eyes leaked red, his pain and fear shining past his yellow irises. As he staggered, the larger vampire – presumably Baby Doll – stomped toward us, fists clenched. Piston depressed the trigger of her stolen Tommy gun, spraying bullets at Baby Doll, but the rounds flattened against him, flaking away.  

Huffing, Piston tossed the gun aside, darting at the mobster and drill-kicking him in the chest with both legs. The blow sent him sliding back a few feet, but the wall of vampiric muscle maintained his balance, reaching into his suit jacket and retrieving a pair a brass knuckles. As Piston used some kind of kick-based combat to keep up with Baby Doll’s bone-rattling blows, I saw the other mobsters take aim at me with their guns, and I shifted into my cat form. 

The world stretched and grew around me as I shrank, the mysterious energy that powered me evaporating my clothes and gear and replacing them with a coat of black fur. My bones crackled as they shifted, and within a second, I was on all fours, my paws padding across the carpet. The gun-wielding mobsters opened fire, but I nimbly danced around the wave of bullets as they buried into the floor around me. Before the vampires could react to my transformation, I’d bridged the gap between us, and I shifted back, my sudden mass increase allowing me to plow through the crowd and collide into Boss. I slipped behind him, wrapping one arm around his neck as I pressed my Walther to the side of his skull. 

“Alright, that’s enough!” I yelled, placing Boss between the vampires’ Tommy guns and myself. “You saw what my bullets did to Screech. What do you think a headshot would do?” 

The Midnight Gang hesitated for a moment before lowering their weapons, and I quickly dragged Boss backwards, heading for the entrance of the lounge. Behind me, Piston and Baby Doll had paused their fight, the former wiping a little blood from the corner of her mouth. Baby Doll stepped to the side, allowing me through, and Piston nodded at me, following me to the front door. 

“You haven’t heard the last of the Midnight Gang, honey,” snarled Boss. “We’ll make sure you get yours.” 

As he threatened us, I saw Screech move to the front of the group, finally recovered from my bullets. “I don’t think so, Boss.” 

We’d almost cleared the doorway as Boss frowned at his comrade. “Don’t you think about it, Screech. This ain’t no time for a power play.” 

I saw Screech inhale, and my eyes widened. Piston, too, realized what was about to happen, and together, we huddled behind Boss as the weaselly vampire cried out once more. Another sonic wave rippled across the room, colliding with Boss. The vibrations channeled through his body, turning him into a blur, and he exploded into a fountain of blood, the force of it knocking Piston and myself through the door and into the street outside the lounge. Red warmth splattered over us like a grisly rainfall, and we scrambled to our feet, retching. 

“And stay out!” I heard Screech yell from within the lounge, and we hurried to my car, daring not look back. 

________________ 

“Alright,” Piston said, speaking into her watch as she wiped Boss’s blood from her face. “Meet you there in an hour.” 

She removed a small device from her ear, embedding it back into the side of her watch. Glancing at me, she smiled a little. “Great work in there, kitty cat. What do I owe you for your trouble?” 

“We can discuss my fee later,” I replied, merging my Volkswagen onto the highway. “There’s no guarantee that Erica, or The Phantom, is even at the meat-packing plant. The smuggler may have taken her, or she might have caught wind of our search and moved herself. I’m seeing this through to the end.” 

“Fair enough.” Piston leaned back in her seat, placing the sidearm she’d left in the car back into her shoulder holster. “Well, you’ll get to meet some of my friends at the border. They’re a fun bunch.” 

“If they’re anything like you, I can only expect more trouble,” I quipped, glancing at the woman. “I notice you haven’t skipped leg day. Are all your friends SPIs like yourself?” 

Piston turned to watch the empty highway pass by the window. “Of course. But I’ll keep their powers a surprise. I know you love a good mystery, anyway.” 

My ears picked up some kind of small whir rapidly growing louder behind us, and I looked in the rearview mirror to see something approaching on the road. “I hope one of your friends has super-speed, because otherwise, we may have undesirable company.” 

Groaning, Piston looked over her shoulder. “No such luck, mate. That’s Drive-By. Erica must have sent him to stop us.” 

“Shit,” I swore, stomping on the accelerator. “The assassin, right? I’ve heard about him from other cases. Uses some kind of rocket skates to zoom past targets and gun them down.” 

“Well, they’re more like propulsion gyroscopes,” Piston corrected me.  

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Rocket skates.” 

I heard the distinct chatter of machine-gun fire and swerved to the side as the rear window of my Volkswagen shattered, bullets bouncing around the interior. Piston drew her sidearm, returning Drive-By’s shots with a volley of her own. In the mirror, I saw the assassin gracefully glide around her bullets, drawing closer. The slide of Piston’s gun clacked as the weapon emptied, and she swore, ejecting her magazine.  

Now that Drive-By had closed his distance to us, I could make out the details of his attire: Yellow, plated armor atop a black bodysuit, his mask a vague simulacrum of a human face. On his chest sat a symbol – a circle split into four quadrants, two yellow and two black – and I realized he’d styled his suit after a crash test dummy.  

This city gets stranger every day, I thought to myself.  

Drive-By pivoted, revealing special black boots which produced a kind of blue energy signature that allowed him to hover an inch or two off the ground. He tilted to the side like a skier, leaning forward a little, and he accelerated, matching my car’s speed. As Piston finished reloading, he extended his arm, revealing a long, automatic pistol with a cylindrical magazine perched atop the barrel.  

As he squeezed the trigger, I slammed on the brakes, and he sped past us, spraying nothing but the night air with his bullets. The sudden deceleration caused me to lose control of the wheel, though, and my Volkswagen skidded at an angle across the road, crashing into the guard rail. The front of the car crumpled under the force, and I saw Piston’s head slam into the side window, knocking her unconscious. My vision blurred as I, too, was jerked around by the momentum, but my seat belt caught me, knocking the air from my lungs. 

I heard the strained whir of Drive-By changing course, and I struggled to unfasten my seat belt, releasing it so it retracted back into the side of the car. I reached for my door handle, but it didn’t budge, and I leaned closer to see that the metal had crumpled a little, wedging my exit shut. 

I’m a sitting duck.  

The Call tickled the back of my mind, and I instinctively reached into my pocket, retrieving the glass-breaking tool. The metal rod abruptly ended in a needle-point spike, and I pressed that point against my window, smacking the back of the rod with my palms. Shards of glass poured around me as the window instantly shattered, and I scrambled through the opening, rolling onto the asphalt beyond my car. 

Machine-gun fire erupted behind me, and I heard a wave of bullets smack into the other side of the vehicle, the thin metal shielding me from instant death. The Call struck me once more, and I morphed into my cat form, slipping under my totaled Volkswagen. Though the highway was largely unlit, my night vision made out Drive-By’s swift approach. He tilted his head as he scanned the car, gun raised, but he seemed unable to make out my small, black body. As he drew within a few yards, still moving at high speed, I darted out in front of him, shifting back into human form and activating my strobe flashlight.  

The flickering white rays, blinding under the night sky, washed across Drive-By, and he covered his eyes, losing control of his “propulsion gyroscopes” much like I’d lost control of my own vehicle. He sped past me, no more than a yellow blur, and collided with the side of my Volkswagen, denting the metal. The force of the crash knocked him onto his back with a heavy thud, and I heard him moan through his mask.  

Hurrying over to the prone man, I saw hairline cracks all along his armor, including his helmet. Drawing my Walther, I whipped it across his face, shattering the weakened mask and revealing the face of a young Chinese man. He winced, blood running down a gash in his forehead, and I aimed the Walther between his eyes.  

“Nice try, Speedy. Save it for the X Games.” 

He dropped his machine pistol, gently raising both hands in surrender. I heard my Volkswagen squeak and rattle, and glanced up in time to see Piston kick the passenger door from its hinges, stumbling out into the road. When she noticed Drive-By on the ground, she laughed, the sound weak and hoarse. 

“I don’t think he’s covered under your car insurance.” 

A giggle escaped my throat, and I gestured for Drive-By to roll onto his stomach as Piston retrieved a set of zip-ties. “I haven’t checked my policy in a while, but in this city? You never know.” 

________________ 

While Piston had her Public Servants benefactor sort out the car accident and take Drive-By into custody, we hailed a ride-share, and within the hour we found ourselves standing outside the meat-packing plant on the Eastern edge of New General City. I heard footsteps approach in the darkness, and turned to see three figures: A man in a red jacket and black baseball cap, another man in a black-and-yellow bodysuit and sporting a domino mask, and a young girl, whose features were mostly hidden beneath a hooded indigo cloak.  

“What a colorful group,” I joked, stretching my stiff muscles. “Did someone call the Power Rangers?” 

“Team, this is The Inspector,” Piston announced, gesturing to me. “She’s responsible for finding Ms. Leroux, and for helping me arrive safely to meet you here tonight.” 

The man in black and yellow raised his hand awkwardly. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Turbine.” 

“Cylinder,” the man in the red jacket added. 

“Crucible,” muttered the girl in the indigo cloak. 

I frowned at Crucible. “Aren’t you a little young to be doing something like this?” 

She glared at me. “Isn’t Avian? She’s my age, and she’s a Public Servant.” 

My heart fluttered at the mention of the young superhero, and I pressed my lips tightly together before responding. “Touché, dear.” 

Cylinder put a finger to his ear, waving to catching the others’ attention. “Silicon says that S.S.’s satellites are picking up a thermal signature. Only one person, no guards or henchmen.” 

Turbine closed his eyes for a few seconds before snapping them back open. “No suspicious electrical feeds. I’m not sensing any traps or advanced weapons. However . . .” 

He guided us to the front door of the plant, gesturing to a keypad installed on the outside. “There is an alarm system, which I suspect will bring in more trouble than we can handle. And this facility is too big for me to fry the whole place with an EMP, so I can’t kill the alarm. We need the code.” 

Cylinder leaned closer to the keypad. “Silicon says it’s a closed system. He can’t remotely hack into it. We’re flying blind.” 

The Call nudged me, and reached into my trench coat. “Not quite.” 

Lifting my hand, I revealed the bottle of baby powder. 

“Well shit, Inspector,” Cylinder chuckled. “I didn’t realize your last name was ‘Gadget.’” 

I opened the bottle, gently tapping the white powder across the keypad. Leaning close, I blew the excess away, leaving behind a thin coast. Amongst the powder, a series of fingerprints appeared, highlighting the numbers one, nine, and zero. 

“What do you think the code is?” mused Crucible, placing her hands on her hips. 

“Could be anything,” Piston replied thoughtfully. “Though, with only three numbers selected, it’s probably a short code. Most likely some kind of four-digit PIN.” 

Turbine frowned, looking at me. “You’re the detective. What do you think?” 

“Well, this isn’t her warehouse,” I said. “However, she’d probably want to set her own code. So, it wouldn’t be too personal, in case one of the Midnight Gang needs to come inside. More likely, it’s related to her secret identity.” 

Cylinder cocked his head, listening to the person in his earpiece. “Silicon is suggesting one-nine-one-zero.” 

Before anyone could respond, he reached out, entering the code. A light above the keypad turned green, and I heard the door unlatch from the other side. We all looked at Cylinder, who shrugged. 

“He said it’s the year The Phantom of the Opera was published.” 

We crept into the building, adhering to the walls and melting in and out of the shadows. The grey, concrete hallways stretched in multiple directions, but Turbine confidently led the way, as if guided by a Call of his own. Unease filled my stomach as we progressed, but neither I nor the others sensed any immediate danger. After a moment, we reached a wooden door at the end of our hallway, and Turbine paused, as if listening for something. 

“I don’t sense her. Could Black Pharaoh or Vampire King be helping her mask herself from me?” 

Cylinder put his finger to his ear. “Silicon says the thermal signature is still active. You might be right.” 

As Turbine’s grip tightened on the doorknob, I felt The Call wash over me; though I saw nothing, I felt the strong impulse to reach into my pocket and retrieve my final tool: the MP3 player. 

“Uh, what are you doing?” whispered Piston as I connected the machine to a set of earbuds and inserted them into my ears.  

I shrugged, scrolling through my music library. “I have no idea.” 

I moved my finger to the MP3 player’s center button and pressed PLAY. 

“I’m gonna make a change 

For once in my life 

It’s gonna feel real good 

Gonna make a difference 

Gonna make it right . . .” 

Michael Jackson’s voice filled my ears, drowning out the others’ whispers as we passed through the doorway. 

Ahead of us loomed a series of conveyors below rows and rows of meat hooks, all of which were thankfully devoid of animal carcasses. Still, the sight brough a chill to my spine, and I shivered, following the others around the equipment. They continued their hushed conversation, but all I heard was America’s twentieth-century pop legend. 

“I’m starting with the man in the mirror 

I’m asking him to change his ways 

And no message could have been any clearer 

If you want to make the world a better place . . .” 

Suddenly, the machines around us flared to life. Emergency lights flashed, conveyor belts rotated, and the meat hook chains began to raise and lower. I looked around, startled, as did the others, and shrill feedback blared through the facility, sharp enough to slightly penetrate my music. I removed one earbud to hear better, and I recognized Erica Leroux’s voice as a familiar song played over hidden speakers. 

“Mr. Mystery, you must’ve missed me! 

Mr. Mystery, you make me miserable lately. 

Mr. Mystery, maybe we could make some 

Magic, oh baby, sweet Mr. Mystery . . .” 

Around me, Piston and her team began to sway with the music, and I hurriedly re-inserted my earbud, drowning it out.  

Mind control, I thought. Piston said she uses sonic technology for mind control.  

As Erica’s song continued, I could hear muffled commands overlap it, though I was unable to make out the words. The gist became quite apparent, however, when Piston, Cylinder, Turbine, and Crucible turned to me, their faces contorting into expressions of anger. Simultaneously, they drew guns and blades from various compartments, approaching me.  

I reached out for The Call, and it overtook me, allowing me sight beyond time as I prepared to struggle for survival. 

The first to attack was Cylinder, who quickly drew a pair of revolvers and fired them like an old-timey gunslinger. I shifted into my cat form, allowing my supernatural instincts to guide me through the lethal barrage. From my Call, I understood that he posed the greatest long-term threat, so I barreled toward him as bullets kicked up flecks of concrete around my paws. I leapt at the marksman, returning to human form midair and curling into a tight ball. My body collided with his torso, sending him off his feet and rolling onto one of the conveyor belts. His revolvers clattered across the floor, alleviating a fraction of the danger I found myself in. 

More gunfire erupted behind me, and The Call blindly guided me through the maze of machines, shielding me from Piston’s attack. As I scrambled beneath the meat hooks, a circular blade whipped through the air, barely missing my head. At the last second, I shifted into cat form, and the death-frisbee banked in a tight circle, returning to Turbine’s hand. Piston paused to reload her gun, and Turbine and Crucible rushed at me. Returning back into my human body, I reached into my trench coat, retrieving a telescopic self-defense baton, and flicked my wrist, extending it.  

“Come on,” I yelled over the music. “Don’t make me hurt you too much.” 

Turbine twisted his body, hurling his blade at me, and I dove below it, executing a tight tumble before returning to my feet. I swung my baton, but he blocked it with his forearm; still, I saw him wince in pain, and I repeated the strike several times in succession, alternating between arms and head. He stumbled back, and I moved to hit him again, but a small foot kicked me in the spine, the force belying its size. 

I fell forward, morphing into cat form, and The Call alerted me to another impending attack from Crucible. Darting to the side, I barely avoided a heavy stomp, her strike sending vibrations through the concrete and running up my feline legs. She moved to kick me a third time, but I ran under her legs, shifting back to human form so that the change in mass knocked her onto her back. I sensed Piston taking aim with her handgun and spun around, hurling the baton at her. It collided with her wrist, knocking the weapon away from her. Ignoring it, she strode calmly toward me, quickly picking up speed into a superhuman sprint. 

I’m charging her extra for this. 

Returning her stride, I ran at Piston, preparing myself. As she transitioned into a flying kick, I shrank into my feline body to slip beneath her, quickly shifting back once behind her to wrap my arm around her neck, effectively clotheslining her midair and sending her tumbling across the meat-packing plant. Before I could catch my breath, The Call alerted me to something approaching to my left, and I instinctively curled my arms inwards to block a front-kick from Cylinder. Sharp pain rain along my body, and I spun to face the gunslinger. 

Too late, I felt arms from behind as Turbine grabbed me and pinned my arms around my back. 

Cylinder slid forward as I struggled to escape, upper-cutting me in the stomach. I wheezed as the wind knocked from my lungs, flecks of bright light sparkling before my eyes, but Cylinder gave me no chance to recover. He followed up with a spinning back-fist across my jaw, and I tasted blood, my vision darkening around the edges. To my right, I saw Crucible approach, carrying Turbine’s circular blade, and The Call itched in the back of my mind, yearning for me to act. 

As Cylinder reared back for a third strike, I shifted, my feline form slipping from Turbine’s arms. Cylinder’s attack continued unabated, and he punched Turbine in the face, sending the man sprawling backwards. Darting to Crucible, I followed The Call, aiming for a pocket sewn within her cloak. I burrowed into the folds of her outfit, my tiny teeth clasping around something before I emerged from the other side. Returning to human form, I dropped the object into my hand, revealing some kind of small medicine tablet.  

The Call pulled at me again, and I knew what to do. 

Crucible whirled around, lunging at me with Turbine’s weapon, but I managed to side-step the attack, elbowing her in the nose. As she grunted, opening her mouth to breathe past her restricted airways, I grabbed her jaw, forcing the tablet down her throat. She resisted, but I covered her mouth, pinning her to the ground at an angle where she couldn’t avoid swallowing. After a moment, she relaxed, and I sensed it was safe to release her. 

What happened next, though, I couldn’t have possibly predicted. 

The young girl stiffened, seizing on the ground, and I heard bones crack as she distorted, her body tearing itself apart from the inside. I backed away slowly, shivering at the scene, as she hunched over, her cloak obscuring her. Blood began to pour across the warehouse floor, and the cloak rose into the air, revealing a mass of green, spiky appendages within. 

And I thought my ability was weird. 

Crucible’s cloak peeled back, revealing a giant praying mantis. Piston, Cylinder, and Turbine ignored the creature, rushing at me, but the mantis clicked its mandibles together, skittering toward them in a blur. Before they could reach me, it intervened, lashing out with both arms and one leg simultaneously. All three appendages reached their targets, pinning my would-be attackers to the warehouse floor. Realization struck me, and I broke out into a grin. 

Her mantis form is immune to the music. Beautiful, chère. 

Leaving the massive insect to deal with its teammates, I shifted into cat form, following my enhanced senses and the pull of The Call through the chaotic meat-packing plant. I quickly found a set of stairs leading to a balcony floor, and I crept up to the new level, entering a series of administrative offices.  

Standing with her back to me, microphone in hand, hunched a young, blonde woman in a classic black-and-white suit. Upon my entrance, she turned to face me, smiling through perfect, pearl-white teeth. I returned to human form, drawing my Walther and taking aim. The woman said something, but I couldn’t hear her over the music in my ears. 

“Hands on your head!” I commanded. “On your knees. You’re under arrest.” 

She slowly turned off the microphone, and I heard the muffled music in the warehouse silence. Removing one earbud, I spoke again. “I said down. Now. No sudden moves, Erica.” 

Her eyes glanced past me, and I felt The Call warn me of sudden danger. I dropped into my cat body just in time to avoid a crossbow bolt, which whizzed over my head and struck Erica directly in the neck. She clutched her throat as blood spurted from her jugular, spraying across the floor, and dropped to her knees, panic in her eyes.  

I spun around to see a man in brown armor and a fur coat looming above me, only a few feet away. His covered face glanced down at me, and my eyes drifted to a large spider symbol on his chest. Lowering his crossbow, he turned away, fleeing down the hall. I took chase, sprinting around the corner on all fours, but he managed to stay ahead of me. At the end of the hall, he quickly scaled a ladder, which appeared to lead to the rooftop. As he punched open the door in the ceiling, climbing through, I returned to my human body, following him up the ladder. My head rose cautiously into the night air, and a gust of wind blew into my face. Clearing my eyes, I spun in a circle, scanning the rooftop. 

Erica’s assassin, however, had vanished. 

Grimacing, I returned to the hallway, turning to see Piston, Cylinder, Turbine and Crucible approaching from the other end. They all looked weary and disoriented, likely still recovering from the effects of Erica’s music. I nodded at them as I walked forward, meeting them in the middle. Raising my thumb, I gestured to the office on my right. 

“She’s in there. An assassin in a brown spider costume shot her.” 

Piston sighed. “Huntsman. We’ve met. Where did he go?” 

I looked back at the ladder. “No clue. He ghosted before I could catch him. At least Erica is–” 

My words froze in my throat as I opened the door to an empty room. 

Cylinder and Piston immediately drew their firearms, rushing into the office, but Erica was nowhere to be found. Where she’d fallen lay a blood-covered crossbow bolt and a dark stain in the carpet. I hurried to the projectile, leaning close to smell it. 

“Synthetic blood.” I returned to my feet, speaking through clenched teeth. “She used a fake assassination to distract me. Erica Leroux is gone . . . again.” 

________________ 

We searched for the rest of the night, but were unable to locate Erica, Huntsman, or the vampires who were supposed to smuggle Erica out of the city. Eventually, we gave up, and Piston told me she’d consult with her Public Servants benefactor for next steps. I agreed, and she paid me for my assistance, mentioning that they’d reach out to me again in the future. I did not, however, charge her extra for attacking me.  

Now, back home, I opened the front door to my office, rubbing my bleary eyes as the sun crept above the horizon behind me. I stumbled inside, shrugging off my trench coat and collapsing once more onto my cot. I sighed heavily, reflecting on the night, and lamented my failure to complete the case. Fatigue trickled through my body, and I felt my eyelids grow heavy . . . 

Then, a gentle knock on my door. 

I growled, rolling out of bed and stomping to the entrance. Reaching for the doorknob, I threw the barrier open, glaring past the sunlight.  

“Monet’s Super– . . .” 

My words faded to silence as I registered the girl outside. Pale skin, pink hair, and a school uniform with a cape attached to the back. A yellow canary sat on her shoulder, staring at me with beady eyes. I recognized the girl from the news, and from my own investigations. She was the Public Servants’ youngest member, Avian. That was not, however, the only reason I knew her. 

“Hey, mom,” she sheepishly muttered. “Can we talk?” 

Want to see more? Donate to the web serial today!

Prelude – Family Values

The slums of New General City cast a dim light across one of its most innocuous structures: A small office wedged between a café and a toy shop. Outside, a single street lamp flickered, its obnoxious buzz penetrating the office’s walls and washing across the interior. A grey-haired woman stirred atop a cot inside the office, using her pillow to drown out the noise. Suddenly, a sharp knock rapped against her door, disintegrating any remaining hopes of a peaceful night’s sleep. She sat up, irritated, and threw on her clothes. 

As she passed her mahogany desk, the brass name tent perched on the edge revealed the pseudonym she’d chosen in this world of costumes and characters: “The Inspector.” She’d adopted the name from the man who’d adopted her, but it was obviously not her real name. No, her real name was lost to time, not uttered since a childhood before the war, back when she still had friends and family to share it with. 

Reaching for the front door, Annelisse turned the knob, cracking it open. 

“Monet’s Supernatural Investigations. What the fuck do you want?” 

An Evening Pinch Teaser: “An Unpleasant Date”

Want to see more? An Evening Pinch will be available soon on Amazon!

The night sky appeared as a thick blanket over Venice, its membrane punctured by a myriad of stars, allowing heavenly light to shine through in miniscule specks. The moon, similarly, cast its own face over us, illuminating the Grand Canal as we rowed across the water. I looked up from the gentle liquid surface to see the flickering cosmos reflected in the eyes of my forever partner, Sy. They returned my stare, cracking a smile with lips I’d love pressed against my own. 

“It’s very clever,” Sy admitted, tapping the side of the gondola. “You always know how to think outside the box, Art.” 

I shrugged, my vampiric body incapable of betraying my sheepishness with a red-faced blush. As the parasitic undead, we’d found crossing running water a physiological challenge for millennia. For our anniversary, however, I’d consulted with some fellow vampires to open a loophole: If we moved at the speed of the water, it would no longer be running, respective to us. After a few tests to confirm the theory, I’d found a way for Sy and myself to enjoy an experience we hadn’t been able to since before the Common Era. 

Sy leaned down, flipping open the lid of the picnic basket. “Strawberries! My favorite.”  

“Only the best for you, my love.” I smiled at them, offering a cheeky wink. “There’s also blood to drink. Human blood.” 

They raised a concerned eyebrow, and I chuckled, shaking my head. “No, I haven’t broken our pact. This is ethically sourced. A cultist on death row, willing to give up a part of himself to feed the ‘darkness.’” 

I raised my fingers to air-quote, and Sy giggled. “Do you think he’d have a problem, knowing that his blood was used for something much more mundane?” 

Reaching out, I wrapped my hand around theirs. “I’ve never had a mundane moment with you in my life, darling.” 

Placing the gondola’s oars in the floor of the boat, I allowed the canal’s current to carry us aimlessly, sliding closer to mitigate the gap between us. Sy locked eyes with mine, and I felt my heart flutter, despite being inanimate for thousands of years. As we kissed in the moonlight, I reached into the basket, retrieving a strawberry.  

“At this point in our lives, the years pass by like seconds,” I began, offering the berry to Sy. They took a sultry bite, maintaining eye contact with me. “But when I look at you, time stands still, as if I’m admiring a beautiful painting. And I’d have it no other way.” 

The gondola drifted against a nearby dock, halting our movement, and I leaned in to kiss Sy again. My enhanced senses suddenly flared to attention, however, and I heard something rocketing toward us. I leaned forward, shoving Sy into the floor of the gondola, and something long and sharp pierced my lower back, emerging from my stomach and nailing me to the dock. Acrid smoke rose from the wound, and I looked down to see a silver harpoon burning against my undead flesh. 

A Hunter, I thought. Why now, of all times? 

I growled, pulling myself backwards to remove the harpoon from my body. As the hole in my abdomen cleared, it began to rapidly heal, the process slowed a little by the silver poisoning. I focused on the sights and sounds around me, the combination of night vision and echolocation quickly honing in on a figure hidden in the tower of a nearby basilica. The Hunter took aim once more, but I was prepared this time; as the harpoon flew through the air, I gracefully side-stepped it, leaping onto the dock.  

“Art, wait!” Sy insisted, sitting up. “Don’t hurt them. They don’t understand.” 

“Trust me, my love,” I replied. “I just want to talk.” 

A third harpoon approached, and I ducked, allowing it to splash into the canal. Darting forward, I quickly closed the gap between the dock and the basilica, the wind resistance devastating my carefully styled hair. Above, I sensed the Hunter backing away from the window, reloading some kind of large rifle. Rather than enter the basilica at ground level, I rapidly scaled the exterior wall, securing myself against invisible footholds like a mountain goat. A few meters from the basilica tower, I paused, calling out calmly. 

“Look, I need you to lower your weapon. We aren’t here to hurt you, or anyone else.” 

I sensed the Hunter chambering a shotgun round, and slid to the side just in time to avoid the roaring wave of flame from a Dragon’s Breath round. Sighing in exasperation, I jumped, landing on the edge of the basilica tower as the Hunter pumped their shotgun, ejecting the spent shell and loading a new one. My eyes pierced the darkness, and I examined the figure in front of me. 

The Hunter was a young, olive-skinned girl with a buzzed haircut, certainly no older than her early twenties. She wore a brown trench coat, and a hiking pack strapped to her back seemed filled to the brim with tools and weapons designed to hunt the supernatural. Her brown eyes, so dark that they almost seemed black, glistened at me with hatred, and as I opened my mouth to speak again, she raised her shotgun in my direction. 

“Hey!” I cried as she pulled the trigger, sending another stream of fire my way. I managed to avoid being singed, but my shirt wasn’t so lucky; the left sleeve caught fire, and I quickly removed the garment. “Seriously, calm down. Let’s just t–” 

She pumped her shotgun again, and this time I rushed at her, batting the weapon from her hands. Sliding backwards, the Hunter produced a crucifix, using it to shield herself from me. I chuckled, leaning forward. 

“Sorry, dear, but I’m agnostic.” 

The Hunter scowled, hurling the crucifix at me, but I plucked it from the air with ease. As my hand made contact with the device, a thick mist emerged from a series of vents along its body. My hand and forearm blackened, and I felt my flesh burn once more. Hissing, I dropped the crucifix, stepping away from the cloud as my arm repaired itself. 

“Holy water humidifier. Clever.” 

I felt a stiff breeze blow past me, pushing the mist out of the tower, and turned to see Sy standing nearby.  

“How’s it going?” they asked, turning to observe the Hunter.  

“Sy, go back to the gondola,” I pleaded. “I can handle this.” 

As we spoke, I saw the Hunter reach for her back, unsheathing a silver broadsword. She circled us, blade bared defensively.  

“Listen, ma’am, or however you identify,” Sy said. “You’re making a mistake. There are cruel and destructive vampires, yes, but Art and I don’t victimize humans. We drink animal blood, or accept human donations. There’s no reason to harm us.” 

“I do not believe you,” growled the Hunter, her accent vaguely Central European. “You monsters are all the same.” 

I traded glances with Sy before speaking. “Now, that’s just hurtful. I understand we’re not going to be good friends any time soon, but your energy is best spent elsewhere. You have no reason to kill us, and we have no intent to die.” 

“We’ll see about that,” the Hunter replied, opening her right hand. A glassy orb the size of a baseball clattered to the tower floor, and I cocked my head. 

Suddenly, the orb flared to life, emitting intense ultraviolet rays that surrounded us in an instant. I hissed, covering my face, and Sy did the same. Despite the myths, we vampires were capable of surviving sunlight, but our nocturnal bodies were quite sensitive to it, and I found myself both physically uncomfortable and very blind.  

“Sy, get out of here!” I yelled into the light, trying to echolocate my partner.  

Fortunately, whatever powered the ultraviolet orb seemed to be short-lived, and the rays flickered out in seconds, bringing the darkness of night crashing back around us. As my vision cleared, I turned to Sy, and my jaw dropped in horror.  

Sy lay on the ground, body twisted at an unnatural angle, their neck leaking a black, viscous fluid. My eyes traveled to the Hunter, who smugly held my partner’s decapitated head by the hair, Sy’s face frozen in an expression of surprise. Fear and pain and disbelief filled my body, and I felt my knees grow weak. Trembling, I met eyes with the Hunter as she unceremoniously dropped Sy’s head to the ground.  

“Where is your cocky attitude now?” she taunted, raising the broadsword. 

My vision went red, and grief became rage. 

The Hunter lunged at me, swinging the sword, but I dove below the blade, grabbing her by the wrists. I pulled her arms apart, forcing the weapon from her hands, and kicked her in the chest. The force of my blow, coupled with my tight grip on her wrists, ripped her arms from her body, sending the rest of her flying out of the tower. I tossed the appendages aside, glancing beyond the basilica. In the street lay the Hunter, unmoving, blood pouring from her arm stumps and a cracked skull.  

Slowly turning to Sy’s remains, I stumbled to my knees, scooping their body up and cradling it. I sobbed, kissing their neck and shoulders, but I knew neither my love nor the supernatural force that drove us for thousands of years would bring them back. A moan escaped my throat, morphing into a scream, and I cursed at the sky so loud that the city began to wake up around me. As I held Sy in my arms, darkness overcame me, and I envied their death. 

Now that I was without them, I’d achieved a fate far, far worse. 

Want to see more? An Evening Pinch will be available soon on Amazon!

Donation Page: A Gap in Time

I hope this post finds you well, and that you find your day free of villains, monsters, and the mundane trials of day-to-day life in the real world.

My web serial, A Gap in Time, is a free, ongoing series that I’ve chosen to work on as a project apart from my traditionally published books. As such, there is no financial obligation for you, the reader. That being said, my primary job absorbs much of my time, and supplementing my income with your generous donation expedites my ability to deliver more content to you.

Either way, please enjoy my world of horror and heroes, and watch out for Gaps along the way!

Make a one-time donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

DonateMake a monthly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate monthlyMake a yearly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate yearly

Donation Page: Troubled Youth & Public Servants

I hope this post finds you well, and that you find your day free of villains, monsters, and the mundane trials of day-to-day life in the real world.

My web serial, Troubled Youth & Public Servants, is a free, ongoing series that I’ve chosen to work on as a project apart from my traditionally published books. As such, there is no financial obligation for you, the reader. That being said, my primary job absorbs much of my time, and supplementing my income with your generous donation expedites my ability to deliver more content to you.

Either way, please enjoy my world of horror and heroes, and watch out for Gaps along the way!

Make a one-time donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

DonateMake a monthly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate monthlyMake a yearly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate yearly

Gaia Awakens Teaser: “Garden of Eden”

Want to see more? Buy Gaia Awakens on Amazon today!

God is good.

Eden opened her eyes, taking in the sunlight drifting in through the curtained window of her cramped living quarters. She sat up in bed, stretching her arms to the ceiling. 

Today is the day to share His word. 

As she moved to stand, she felt something under her tongue and paused, frowning. Reaching up, she pinched her thumb and forefinger around the object, retrieving it from her mouth. There, glistening in the early morning sun, sat a small, black seed. Eden cocked her head, wondering where it could have come from.

No matter.

She quickly dressed, exiting her room to join the rest of her commune. They gathered together, chattering excitedly, moving aside for some of the men to lay out their freshly painted signs to dry. Turning to the right, Eden exited the common area, stepping outside to bask in the fresh air. Next to her sat small wooden sign hammered into the ground:

EASTBORO PENTACOSTAL CHURCH.

As she twirled around to return to the church, movement near her feet caught her eye. She crouched, examining the grass. In a near perfect circle around her, small, pink flowers had begun to bloom, rapidly growing upwards. Reaching out, she brushed her fingers against the petals, amazed by them. 

Yes, God is good, indeed.

Her pastor, the leader and Father of the church, poked his head outside. “Are you coming, Eden?”

Eden smiled, pointing down. “Look, Father. A miracle. A blessing for our actions to come.”

He followed her finger, his lips flattening into a grimace as he saw the flowers. “Maybe, child. The Lord works in mysterious ways. But then, so does the Devil. Why would God come to you, here in secret, to express his blessing? Beware Lucifer, the most beautiful angel.”

Eden’s grin faltered, and she lowered her head. “Right. I’m coming in.”

________________

An hour later, Eden found herself in the back of a black SUV, squished between two other women. They rode in silence, the men in the front driver’s and passenger’s seats occasionally exchanging knowing glances. The man in the passenger seat shifted at one point, exposing a long, sheathed knife at his hip. The sight of the metal gave Eden chills, and she shivered.

Something small crawled across her arm, and she absently reached down without looking to flick it away. She felt only skin, however, and glanced at the appendage, noting nothing on the surface. As she watched, though, one of her veins seemed to pulse a little, generating the crawling sensation once more. She blinked in surprise and alarm, but it settled, growing still.

“I don’t know if I feel so good,” she whispered to the woman on her left.

The woman smiled curtly, leaning over. “The Lord will provide. This is too big for you to miss.”

“What if we’re wrong?” Eden whispered. “There’s a lot happening, things we still don’t understand . . . maybe God wants us to . . . help?”

The two men glanced back at her, the expressions stoic, and Eden shrank back into her seat, pressing her hands in her lap. “Right. Of course. God is good.”

A shadow out the window drew her attention to the passing tower, a large, metal structure with a slowly spinning fan up in the sky. The blades caused the sun to flicker, hurting Eden’s eyes, and she turned away. Ahead, she saw the others gathered at the property driveway, picket signs in hand. As the SUV slowed to a crawl, two young men exited the house at the end of the driveway, cautiously approaching the crowd.

“Here,” one of the churchgoers said to Eden, shoving a sign in her hands. “Hold this.”

Eden looked down at the words on the placard. 

YOU TAKE OUR WIND, YOU TAKE OUR SPIRIT! JOHN 3:8

“What’s going on here, neighbors?” one of the house owners asked, nervousness infecting his voice.

Father emerged from the crowd, waving his beat-up copy of the Bible in the air. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong! You and your kind have brought a blight upon the land, and you have the gall to ask me what’s wrong?”

The man glanced at his husband, raising an eyebrow. “My kind? We have names. I’m Teddy, and that’s William.”

“Yes, your kind,” Father retorted. “As it says in Mark, ‘what comes out of a person is what defiles him,’ including sexual immorality. But you will bear the punishment of your private crimes when the Lord sees fit. We’re here for what you’ve done to the Lord’s sky.”

The couple’s eyes drifted upwards, at the spinning blades in the clouds. “You mean our wind turbine?” William asked. “We were offered a stipend to put it on our property. It’s a good step towards clean energy.”

“Clean energy!” scoffed Father, turning to the crowd. “These men think they know clean. They think they know purity. They think they know better than God!”

The crowd hissed and booed at the couple.

Eden shifted her stance uncomfortably, disquieted by the church’s behavior, and something tugged at her foot. Looking down, she saw the grass beneath her had grown rapidly, wrapping around her ankles. She jerked backwards, startled, and ripped away the plant matter, almost stumbling against the door of the SUV. Where the grass had touched her, her skin had shifted to a forest-green hue. She rubbed at the marks, but to no avail. 

“Climate change is a liberal hoax,” Father lectured the two homeowners. “The wind isn’t theirs to control. All you’re doing is obscuring God’s beauty, and casting a shadow over our church.” He pointed down the road, where Eden’s home could be seen as a speck in the distance.

Teddy crossed his arms defiantly. “We’re not taking it down. Period.”

William nodded. “We go to church too, you know. We know our Scripture. And we know our rights and responsibilities as God-fearing men.”

“Fine,” spat Father. “I’ll do it myself.”

He gestured at one of the men behind him, who produced a clear, fluid-filled bottle with a rag stuffed into the spout. They began to walk past the couple, towards the wind turbine. The couple intervened, shouting in protest, and two more churchgoers appeared, wrestling them to the ground.

“Wait!” Eden stepped forward, heart pounding in her chest. “Father, don’t do this.”

Father glanced over his shoulder at the woman, scowling. “Don’t give in to the Devil’s voice, my child.”

“This isn’t what God wants!” Eden argued. “God is good. I don’t know what’s right here, but I know violence isn’t the answer.”

“Is it not my right, as an emissary of God?” Father asked, gesturing to the crowd. “Leviticus 20:13 says, ‘If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.’”

The crowd cheered in agreement.

“You’re still on that Old Testament nonsense?” William laughed, his face still pressed into the ground. “Aren’t you wearing a horrendously basic cotton-polyester t-shirt right now? That’s also a no-no.”

“Come on, the Bible is full of contradictions,” his husband pleaded, making eye contact with Eden. “Jeremiah tells us to be stewards of the earth. So does Isaiah.”

“Well . . .” Eden hesitated. “They’re right about that, Father.”

“You’re letting their agenda corrupt you,” Father growled, anger in his voice. “Step aside, child.”

He turned back to the couple, rearing his leg up to kick the one closest to him.

“No!” cried Eden, stretching out her hand.

She felt a small pulse leave her body, rippling across the crowd like a whispering breeze. In the wake of the disturbance, thousands of small, pink flowers sprouted from the ground, growing until each was almost a foot tall. The flowers closest to Father grew longer, though, wrapping around his arms and shoulders before retracting, jerking him to the ground.

The men holding down the homeowners released them, standing in surprise. One of them retrieved a knife, heading over to cut Father loose, while the other glared at Eden. The homeowners leapt to their feet, running back to their house before the other churchgoers could recapture them.

As Father was cut free, he shouted to the crowd. “Eden has been possessed! The Devil works through her to stop us. Return her to The Lord!”

What? Eden thought. No! I’ve done nothing wrong.

The members of the church, those she’d befriended and grown with these last few years, turned on her in an instant, stalking towards her. 

She backed away, arms raised, tears streaming down her face. “Please, everyone. God is good. I just want to do good, like Him. I didn’t ask for this . . . whatever this is.”

Some of the closest churchgoers reached out to grab her, but as their fingertips touched her, the flowers around them rapidly twisted and grew, flicking like a whip to crack against their offending appendages. Eden looked down at her own hands, now covered in some kind of green rash. Panicking, she turned and fled, making her way to the SUV. The crown stomped behind her, struggling against the field of living flowers.

Reaching for the SUV door, she pulled at it, but her finger crackled as the bones within snapped apart, almost as if they’d transformed into twigs. Eden cried out in surprise, but surprisingly found herself devoid of pain. She knew, deep down, she had become something beyond the limits of pain and fear. 

Slowly rotating to face her would-be attackers, she raised her hands, the veins beneath her green skin rippling like worms. The flowers and grass stretched like taffy, encircling the feet of the churchgoers, who did cry out in pain. Doubt and panic faded away in Eden’s brain as leaves overtook it, and she watched dispassionately as the stems and weeds washed across their legs, tying them to the ground.

Father tried to light the clear bottle on fire to throw at Eden, but her flowers had other plans. As the rag stuffed down the bottle’s neck ignited, elongated flowers encircled his wrists, tightening. Father screamed in pain, dropping the incendiary device, and it shattered at his feet, engulfing him in flames. His cries grew shrill as fire washed up his body, but Eden barely heard it, examining her work with the others.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, seeds pouring from her mouth and dropping to the ground, where they immediately sprouted into more flowers. “You’re all so beautiful.”

The crowd grew still as the plants reached chest, neck, and skull, locking them in place. Tears leaked from their eyes, and pink flowers appeared around them, covering their terrified expressions. Grass and flowers overtook flesh and clothes alike, and soon, Eden’s former family seemed to be no more than a large garden.

My first garden of many, Eden thought, feeling as close to gleeful as she felt capable. The world is my family now.

“What in God’s name . . .” she heard Teddy exclaim, and she turned to see the man and his husband standing at the edge of Eden’s garden. “How did this happen?”

“They needed to see,” Eden said, her voice shaky. “I loved them, but they needed to see. God is good.” The flowers grew larger, sprouting thorn-like teeth, and a carnivorous urge overtook Eden. “You need to see it, too.”

She took a step towards them, practically floating atop the flowers, and they backed away, faces pale with terror. More stems, thorn-covered and razor-sharp, emerged from the ground, capturing them, and they screamed for help. She hardly heard them, though; they were drowned out by the plant life inside her, the planet’s very soul, weeping. Mother Nature cried out for justice, for vengeance, and Eden was nothing now but a vessel for her fury.

God was good, after all. It just turned out her “God” wasn’t the one she expected.

Want to see more? Buy Gaia Awakens on Amazon today!

Welcome to New General City, Pt. 10 – Lifeguard on Duty

My head spun as I coughed, expelling brick and plaster dust from my lungs. The copper taste of blood filled my mouth, and I realized that I was face-down in the rubble of Textile’s laboratory. Wet, squishing sounds reached my ears, and I heard unnatural footsteps approach. Groaning, I extended my hand, summoning Pulsar. A series of faint crashes grew louder as the circular blade obliterated everything in its path, tearing a straight line to me. 

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed the back of my shirt, lifting me into the air like a paper doll. As I rapidly ascended, I caught a blurry glimpse of blue, scaly, humanoid creatures flooding the safehouse ruins. Their movements were almost primate-like, their unusually long arms covered in flaps that appeared to be some kind of underwater propulsion system.  

Fish-men, I thought. This is Angler’s doing. 

Just in time, Pulsar arrived. I caught it with my outstretched hand, my body still held aloft by one of the fish-men. Swiping downward, I hacked into the creature’s arm, and it emitted a low, roaring tone, like the call of a distant whale. Clearly in pain, it dropped me, and I crashed to my hands and knees, Pulsar tumbling away. The injured fish-man loomed over me, chest heaving, but before it could strike, the long, silver blade of a katana pierced its neck from behind, the metal dripping blue blood. Clutching for its throat, the creature gurgled, but the blade cut to the side, decapitating it in one quick swipe. As the headless fish-man collapsed, I saw Textile standing over its body, covered in sweat and monster blood. 

“You . . . okay?” he asked between shallow breaths. 

I nodded, magnetizing Pulsar back to my palm. “Where are the–” 

A green blur whipped past me quickly enough to bring tears to my eyes, bisecting two approaching fish-men at the waist in a split-second. Their chopped corpses tumbled into the ruins of the safehouse, spraying blue blood. As the newcomer slowed to a stop, mandibles clicking, I recognized Crucible’s mantis, and remembered that my UV emitter was still active. Crucible’s indigo cloak remained bound to the insect’s neck and back, the comparably tiny hood and cape fluttering almost comically in the wind. 

It’s protecting me. The belt works. 

“Hey!” I heard Piston yell behind me. “Bugger off!” 

I turned in time to see Piston and Cylinder back-to-back, engaging the fish-men in a series of martial arts maneuvers. Despite their fighting prowess, the pair were outnumbered and overpowered, the fish-men’s strength and toughness making them formidable opponents.  

“Bug!” I called to Crucible’s mantis. “Take them out.” 

The mantis skittered forward, diving into the fray as a sea of razor-sharp appendages. The fish-men surrounding our teammates quickly fell to pieces, freeing the two combatants. Piston and Cylinder made a beeline to the sole standing wall, its exterior specially reinforced to house the armory within. A metal panel slid back, revealing a massive rack of firearms. 

“What are you thinking?” I asked as Textile and I joined them, leaving the mantis to tear apart the remaining fish-men.  

“Look beyond our house,” Piston commented, gesturing past the rubble. Fish-men roamed the streets as far as I could see, and the city skyline was shrouded in smoke from a dozen fires. Citizens’ distant screams filled the air, chilling me to the bone. “This Angler attack is bigger than us. We need to find out why.” 

Suddenly, our watches rang in tandem, flashing “S.S.” on the screen. We traded glances before answering, inserting our earbuds. 

“Is everyone okay?” S.S. chimed into our ears, belying an urgency we weren’t used to them expressing. In the background, we could hear a rush of wind, alongside the whistle of their plasma missiles being launched. 

“Oh shit, my PlayStation!” Cylinder suddenly gasped, spinning to face the remains of the living room. “I had, like, thirty hours logged on the new Red Dead game.” 

“Everyone but Cylinder, apparently,” Piston dryly commented, plucking a large assault rifle off the gun rack. “What’s going on, S.S.?” 

“This one’s on me,” S.S. admitted. “They’re after a package I have hidden at a drop site in midtown. I need you to get to it first.” 

“S.S. . . .” Textile’s voice dropped an octave. “What’s in the package?” 

“Well . . .” 

“Sterling Silver!” we all cried simultaneously. 

“Okay, okay,” S.S. sighed. “The fish-men have a queen in the Mariana Trench, a creature I believe to be related genetically to Angler. I took some of her eggs when she wasn’t looking.”  

“Why?” pressed Piston. “You finally got hungry?” 

“After that crab kaiju a few months ago, I wanted to get ahead of Angler,” S.S. explained. “I thought, if I could break down the genetic code in the eggs, I could reverse-engineer Angler’s telepathy and use it to ward off future sea monster attacks.” 

“That’s a big move,” Textile said, whistling. “Why aren’t you sending Spectral Man or Avian after it?” 

“The others don’t know,” replied S.S. “After the incident with The Living Mortar, I don’t know if anyone else is compromised. You’re still flying mostly under the radar, so I’m inclined to believe The Phantom’s mind-control scheme hasn’t included you. For now, the Public Servants are acting as crowd control and monster slayers.” 

“Works for me,” Piston said, sliding a magazine into her rifle as Cylinder retrieved a wooden case from the wall. Behind me, I heard the telltale hiss of Textile donning his hydraulic suit. “Let’s go fishing.” 

I turned to the blood-covered mantis, who now watched me intently. “Follow me.” 

________________ 

We crept through the alleyways, trying to maintain a stealthy path as best as four adults and a twelve-foot insect could manage. Piston led the way with the barrel of her assault rifle, and I watched Cylinder load what appeared to be paper cartridges into a pair of flintlock pistols outfitted with revolver chambers.  

“What in God’s name are those?” I asked, gesturing to the weapons. “Did you pick them up from an antique store?” 

He chuckled, glancing up at me. “You know who Elisha Collier is?” 

I shook my head. 

“Inventor of the revolver,” he explained, thumbing back both weapons’ hammers. “These are modified replicas of the prototypes.” 

“But . . . why?” I queried. 

“Firepower.” He grinned, admiring the revolvers. “These bad boys spit out fifty-cal lead balls. They cause some major damage at moderate range without being as unwieldy as the Pfeifer-Zeliska.” 

The side door of the building to our left exploded outward, revealing a trio of fish-men. They piled out of the room they’d been ransacking, rushing in our direction. Before anyone else could react, Cylinder hip-fired three shots from his Collier revolvers in quick succession, and the fish-men’s heads burst like dropped watermelons, splashing the brick behind them with blue blood. As the headless corpses tumbled to the alley floor, Cylinder quickly ejected his homemade cartridges, inserting new ones. He saw me watching, and winked. 

“See? Told you.” 

A shadow loomed at the alley’s exit, and we turned to see another half-dozen creatures scurrying towards us. Piston and Cylinder opened fire with their weapons, cutting down the group before they could close the gap to us, but more crawled over the bodies, emitting their whale-like cries. Textile, the mantis and I rushed into the fray, using our sharp edges to cut through scale and flesh until the cries grew silent. 

“That was the easy part, boys,” Piston said, gesturing beyond the alleyway. “We’ve got to cut through Central Park now.” 

I readied Pulsar, steeling myself. “You didn’t train us for nothing, did you?” 

We hurried into the sunlight, our feet pounding against the pavement as we crossed the street into Central Park. Ahead, fish-men swarmed the area, but to my relief, it seemed that the civilians had fled the park before their arrival. Now, the creatures roamed it like teenage thugs, uprooting trees and destroying park equipment. When we stepped on the grass of the park’s edge, though, the fish-men focused on us, and we pressed ahead, unleashing hell. 

The mantis reached the fish-men first, as potent as a bowling ball rushing into a set of pins. Crucible’s indigo cloak fluttered behind it as it tore into the creatures, scattering appendages left and right. I hurled Pulsar at the cluster of creatures who’d formed around, using my bioelectric connection to the blade to convert its forward motion into a horizontal, sweeping one, cutting into the fish-men. Textile and Piston joined me as a blood-covered Pulsar returned to my hand, the former swinging his katana while the latter alternated between rifle rounds and devastating front-kicks. Behind us, Cylinder poured lead into the edges of the group, dropping them before they could reach us. 

A fish-man appeared in front of me, swiping its clawed, finned hands, and I ducked below its attack, returning to face-level just long enough to tap its forehead, emitting a quick, precise burst of electricity. The impromptu shock to its frontal lobe instantly knocked it unconscious, sending it spiraling into the grass. Three more creatures approached, but Piston appeared in front of me, side-kicking one of them with enough force to audibly crush its sternum and knock it out of sight. At such close range, she slung her rifle over her shoulder and tightened the strap, opting for her 1911 instead. She fired four rounds into the closest creature’s head while I assaulted the other one, slashing into its throat with Pulsar. Piston and I backed into each other, chests heaving, and nodded before separating once more.  

I dodged and parried, swiped and slashed, cutting my way through the fish-men in an attempt to get through the other side. A shadow loomed at my back, and I saw the mantis’s claws strike downward on both sides, impaling the fish-men and flinging them away from me. The creatures changed tactics, piling onto the mantis and weighing it down to minimize its damage. It hissed, twisting back and forth, but it could not free itself of its new passengers.  

“Cylinder!” I yelled, calling the marksman’s attention to the insect. 

He nodded, weaving expertly through the crowd as if made of wind. Leaping into the air, he planted both feet onto a fish-man’s shoulders, unleashing all ten of his Colliers’ bullets in quick succession into the creatures atop the mantis. They dropped away like flies against a bug zapper, littering the grass around our insectile comrade.  

As I ran to assist the mantis, I felt strong, scaly arms arrest my movement, dragging me backwards. I tried to lash out with Pulsar, but their grip was too strong, and soon I found myself airborne. The world around me went silent as water engulfed me, and I cleared my eyes to see myself sinking into the small pond in the middle of Central Park. In the murky gloom, I saw a dozen fish-men propelling towards me like torpedoes, eyes glowing yellow to light their way. I panicked, trying to swim back to the surface, but webbed hands tightly gripped my ankles, dragging me down.  

The fish-men drew closer, circling me like sharks, baring long, pointed teeth at me. One drew close enough for me to take a swipe with Pulsar, but the water slowed my attack, giving the creature ample time to avoid it. The sunlight faded as I sank deeper into the pond, and my lungs ached as oxygen became carbon dioxide. My vision began to blur, and in a last-ditch maneuver, I closed my eyes . . .  

Gathered my strength . . .  

And emitted the most powerful electrical pulse I could muster. 

I felt the energy leave my body, and opened my eyes to see yellow arcs snake through the water. As the electricity radiated from me like a shockwave, first amplified by my suit and then conducted by the water, the fish-men around me stiffened like mannequins, shaking violently as God-knows-how-many volts coursed through them. After a few seconds, they fell limp, and I felt the grip on my ankles loosen as their corpses began to float to the pond’s surface. 

Relieved, I joined them.  

As my head burst from the water, I surveyed Central Park; to my pleasant surprise, I saw that the battle had ended in my absence. The rest of the team looked at me, concern on their faces transforming into relief. I smiled and waved, holstering Pulsar so I could return to shore. 

“I know it’s warm today,” Cylinder quipped, crouching to offer me a hand out of the pond, “But maybe we can save the swim until after the mission is over?” 

________________ 

We made our way to the other side of Central Park, navigating down a few more blocks without much incident before arriving at our destination: NGC BAIT & TACKLE. We crept toward the entrance, watching out for fish-men, but the area remained shockingly silent. Piston glanced at us before slinging her rifle onto her back, rearing back to kick the door open. 

Suddenly, a black-clad hand punched through the wooden door, striking her in the chest and knocking her onto her back. The rest of the door burst open, and a pale-faced man with beady eyes and thin, red lips stepped into the sunlight, covered in some kind of plated, obsidian armor. He surveyed us with a cold, calculating stare, his eyes drifting up to focus on the mantis. 

Black Pharaoh, I realized. 

“Looking for something?” he chuckled, watching Piston struggle back to her feet. “You should know, we found those eggs a week ago. As we’ve learned from watching your little team, a bit of covert action goes a long way.” 

Textile readied his katana. “Then why all this mess? Why have Angler attack the city?” 

Grinning, Black Pharaoh pointed behind him, at the shop sign. “Why, bait, of course. I needed something to lure my property back to me.” 

“Property?” My eyes widened, and I glanced back at the mantis. “No. You’re not getting Crucible.” 

“Crucible?” Black Pharaoh laughed, his voice raspy and harsh. “You named it! Like a pet. How droll.” 

He snapped his fingers, and two young boys in tattered clothes emerged from the shop, standing at attention to his left and right. “She’s nothing special. Subject One, Subject Two, retrieve my property.” 

They nodded in tandem. “Yes, my pharaoh.” 

Hunching over, their bodies began to contort, the cracking of their bones audible even from a distance. I saw large, black legs protrude from their flesh, and blood pooled around their feet as flesh and muscle and bone shucked away like corn husks. In their place stood a pair of car-sized centipedes, their faceless heads twitching in the mantis’s direction. They hissed, but the mantis returned the gesture, and the three giant insects rushed at each other, biting and clawing and morphing into a cloud of razors.  

“Looks like you’ve got them quite under control,” Textile commented, turning his helmeted head back to Black Pharaoh. “Your control.” 

The four of us readied our weapons in his direction. 

“So, you think if you stop me, you stop my subjects?” the pale-faced man mused. “But, it’s four against one. Hardly a fair fight.” 

I felt a familiar presence – the one from the alley on the night of Crucible’s first transformation – appear overhead, and something small and sharp whizzed toward Cylinder’s head. 

“Look out!” I cried, hurling Pulsar in front of the marksman. A small crossbow bolt glanced off of the flat of the blade, and I summoned it back into my hand, turning my attention to the roof of the bait-and-tackle shop.  

“This should even the odds,” Black Pharaoh commented, gesturing to the man above him. 

A masked man in brown armor and a fur coat, with a large spider symbol on his chest. 

“Huntsman,” Piston muttered. “You get around, don’t you, mate?” 

She swiveled, unslinging her rifle and opening fire on the rooftop, but Huntsman gracefully leapt over her, leaving her bullets to punch through nothingness. A throwing knife emerged from his outstretched hand as he glided through the air, penetrating her rifle’s extractor and jamming the weapon. She swore, unclipping the rifle strap and tossing it to the ground, but then he was upon her, swinging a machete. Her eyes widened as the blade fell toward her face, drawing within inches . . . 

Just in time, Textile emerged between them, deflecting the blow with his katana. I rushed to intervene, hurling Pulsar at Huntsman’s head, but he spun in a circle, catching my blade by its grip and using his momentum to send it flying back at me. I yelped, diving to the side, and Pulsar whistled past me, missing me by centimeters. 

“Hey!” I heard Cylinder yell, and Huntsman paused, machete raised defensively. The marksman had holstered his Colliers, favoring the pair of Peacemakers I didn’t realize he’d also been carrying. “You’re fast, yeah? Me too. Let’s see who’s faster, the blade or the bullet.” 

Cylinder’s hands twitched, but Huntsman’s moved just slightly faster, flicking what appeared to be two long, steel needles through the air. As Cylinder pulled the triggers of his Peacemakers, the needles entered the gun barrels, causing the revolvers to backfire and explode in Cylinder’s hands. He cried out in pain, dropping the ruined pistols and squeezing his bloody fingers into fists. 

As I returned to my feet, summoning Pulsar, I glanced around for Black Pharaoh, but he’d disappeared, his bioelectric aura either beyond my reach or masked from me. Behind me, the battle between the mantis and the centipedes continued, the three creatures crashing through a nearby building and leaving a pile of brick and glass in their wake. 

Ahead, Piston and Textile rushed Huntsman, the former wielding her 1911 and the latter, his katana. Planting his machete in the ground, Huntsman produced a pair of three-pronged sai knives, using his left hand to ensnare Textile’s sword within the prongs. While Textile struggled to release his blade, Piston drew close, opening fire with her pistol. Without letting go of Textile’s weapon, Huntsman twisted his body, throwing the armored man over his shoulder and onto his back, shifting to dodge Piston’s bullets in the process.  

Freed from Textile’s blade, Huntsman dove into Piston, lashing out with the spiked ends of his sais. She leaned back, kicking at his chest simultaneously. Twisting to the side, Huntsman allowed the leg to pass him, altering his attack to bury both sais into her extended thigh. She screamed, and he performed an open-palm strike to her throat, paralyzing her vocal cords. 

“Motherfucker,” I swore, shoulder-checking the assassin away from Piston before he could harm her any further. As he staggered back, I swung Pulsar upwards, attempting to cut into him. He retrieved a pair of hatchets from his coat, crossing them in front of him just in time to stop the blow. I tried to channel an electric shock through my blade, but I found myself still depleted from my pulse in the pond. 

Huntsman twisted the hatchets at a dizzying speed, catching Pulsar and pulling it from my grasp. As the weapon clattered across the sidewalk, he spun into a back-kick, striking me in the stomach and propelling me onto my back. Completing his spin, he released one of the hatchets, sending it spinning toward my head. I squinted in anticipation, waiting for the pain and the darkness. 

A bloody hand appeared in front of me, catching the hatchet out of the air. Cylinder stepped between Huntsman and myself, twirling the hatchet with his left hand while readying his Bowie knife with the other. Tilting his head, Huntsman slowly reached into his cloak, producing a Bowie knife of his own. Cylinder darted at the man, hurling the hatchet, but Huntsman mirrored the action, causing both weapons to collide midair and bounce away from each other.  

As the hatchets landed on the ground, Cylinder and Huntsman swung their knives, the metal pinging as the blades glanced off one another. I watched their tête-à-tête in awe; it was as if watching someone fight their shadow, or their mirror’s reflection. Still, I noticed Huntsman slowly gaining the upper hand, his attacks a little stronger, his movements slightly faster. I crawled to my feet, ready to assist, when I saw Textile standing a few yards behind Huntsman, hydraulic bow at the ready. 

“Cylinder, duck!” he commanded, releasing the notched bolt. 

Cylinder dove to the ground, but Huntsman heard the warning, too, and tilted to the side, somehow catching the bolt out of the air. He allowed the momentum of the bolt to pull him forward, spinning in a circle to crack the projectile across Cylinder’s head like a fire poker. Cylinder’s face turned white, and I saw him collapse limply onto the concrete. Huntsman dropped the bolt, turning to face Textile as the engineer notched another one into his bow. 

“Textile, don’t!” I cried.  

Huntsman flicked his wrist, this time sending a marble-sized sphere at Textile. When it reached a few inches from the man’s helmet, it detonated into a flash of blinding light, shifting his aim and sending the second bolt into the wall of a nearby building. Huntsman aimed his Bowie knife at Textile, sprinting at him, and the engineer dropped his bow, drawing his katana again . . . 

Suddenly, a large, black shape tumbled through the air, colliding with Huntsman and pinning him to the ground. I had barely enough time to register the corpse of one of the centipedes before I saw Crucible’s mantis emerge from a nearby alley, its carapace cracked, blood oozing from torn muscle. The other centipede limped past the mantis, similarly damaged, but the mantis lashed out with its scythe-like arms, decapitating the creature. No longer able to stand, the mantis collapsed, sprawling into the street. 

“Hey, bug!” I sprinted to assist the creature, offering it one of Textile’s glucose tablets. “Good work.” 

It gently took the tablet from my hand, swallowing it. The carapace began to fall away, and from the melting flesh I saw Crucible on her hands and knees, the indigo cloak still around her neck magnetically buttoning along her thin frame to protect her once more. I offered her a hand, and she weakly smiled at me, but her expression morphed instantly into terror. A shadow loomed behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Huntsman inches away, stabbing his machete at Crucible’s head.  

A flash of blue obscured my vision, and I heard a quick, wet sound that I couldn’t identify. My eyesight cleared, and I registered Textile crouching between Huntsman and Crucible, the machete buried in the center of his chest and protruding all the way through the back of his armor. As I watched in horror, Textile struck out with his own sword, but even at point-blank range, Huntsman was able to move swiftly enough to only take the blade to his left shoulder. 

Thinking quickly, I jumped forward, grabbing Textile’s katana and electrifying it with the little energy I’d recovered during our fight. Yellow sparks traveled along the metal, entering Huntsman’s body and sending him flying backwards, stunned. As Huntsman collapsed in the street, Textile fell onto the ground, blood spurting from his wound. I reached out to remove the machete, but he shook his head, coughing.  

“That’ll make it worse,” he weakly explained, removing his helmet. Blood leaked from his mouth, and his eyes seemed unfocused. “This keeps pressure on the injury.” 

I nodded, releasing the machete handle and wiping tears from my eyes. I heard footsteps approaching, and turned to see Piston limping our way, her eyes wide. 

“Textile? Textile!” she cried, her voice still raspy from Huntsman’s attack to her throat. She activated her watch, calling into it. “S.S., Textile is down. I repeat, he’s dying. We can’t move him without worsening his injuries. We need your help.” 

Together, Crucible, Piston and I circled Textile, and Piston took one of his hands in hers. 

“Don’t do it,” she said, her voice trembling. “Don’t you die on me.” 

He laughed a little, clutching his chest as blood leaked from it. “No promises.” 

Crucible leaned over, hugging the man, sobbing into his shoulder. “Don’t go. We need you.” 

“She’s right,” I whispered, putting my hand into his empty one. “We can’t do this without you, man.” 

My senses registered a change in bioelectric energy, and I looked around to see Huntsman gone. Cylinder, however, remained still on the ground, and I silently prayed that we didn’t have two dying men today.  

The sound of twin rockets flared overhead, and we glanced up as S.S. lowered themself to the ground. Their red eyes flickered as they turned to Textile, scanning him. 

“He doesn’t have much time,” claimed S.S. “I have to act quickly.” 

“What are you going to–” I began to ask, but before I could finish my sentence, the metallic superhero bent down, cradled Textile in their arms, and jettisoned straight up, disappearing into the clouds. Crucible, Piston and I traded confused glances, avoiding looking at the puddle of blood on the sidewalk. 

While we waited, we cautiously approached Cylinder, keeping an eye out for Black Pharaoh or Huntsman. It took a moment, but we were able to wake him, and when he heard about Textile, his jaw dropped. 

“No. Tell me it isn’t true.” 

We avoided eye contact, the street supernaturally silent. 

Then, our watches lit up. We glanced down in tandem, reading the caller’s name on the screen. 

TEXTILE. 

“Dios mío,” I whispered, and we inserted our earbuds. 

“Hello? Is there . . .” Textile’s voice sounded distant, hollow, obscured by static. “Where am I?” 

I glanced at Piston, who responded. “We don’t know, mate. Where did S.S. take you?” 

“I’m . . . oh God, my body. I can’t feel my body. Why is it so dark?” 

A second voice entered the call, this one S.S.’s. “Textile, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” 

“What happened to him?” Cylinder asked. 

“I knew I couldn’t save him; not all of him, at least,” explained S.S. “So, I did for him what I’ve only ever done one other time.” 

“What did you do?” cried Textile. “What did you do?” 

Some kind of feedback screeched in my ear, and I winced. Around us, the abandoned cars all came to life, their alarms blaring, their lights flashing out of sync with each other. The display televisions of a nearby electronics shop flickered, producing white static that quickly took on the silhouette of a face.  

“Textile?” I squinted at the televisions, stepping closer. “Are you a ghost?” 

“In a way,” S.S. responded. “His brain’s been digitized. He’s no longer flesh and blood. He’s silicon now.” 

Textile’s anguished cries continued as a chill ran down my spine. 

All my life, I’d wanted to be a superhero. Would this eventually be my fate, too? 

Make a one-time donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

DonateMake a monthly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate monthlyMake a yearly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate yearly

Welcome to New General City, Pt. 9 – It Takes a Village

The mantis hissed, lashing out at Cylinder with its scythe-like front appendages. His enhanced reflexes kicked in, and he rolled safely to the side, leaving behind the bug’s arms to bury into the asphalt. Hissing again, the mantis yanked its arms back into the air, turning to me this time. 

“Uh . . . what do I do?” I called nervously to Cylinder. 

“It’s a giant carnivorous insect that just killed the girl we were trying to rescue,” he yelled back. “What do you think?” 

Clenching my fist, I hurled Pulsar at the mantis’s head, but its carapace was too tough, and the circular blade bounced harmlessly away, spiraling back into my hand. I tumbled forward to avoid a horizontal swipe from the creature, swinging my weapon at its legs, but once again, I caused no visible damage. As I tried to back away, it wrapped its arms around me, squeezing me tight, and lifted me into the air. I saw its mandibles click together excitedly as I approached its mouth, and I hoarsely screamed. 

A barrage of bullets suddenly struck the mantis’s face, and one of them caught it in the eye, cracking one of its reflective lenses. The creature shrieked, dropping me, and I landed on my back with enough force to knock the wind out of me. Cylinder bore down on the mantis, unleashing hell with his twin revolvers, but by the time they’d emptied, the insect still stood tall. He frowned, and the mantis skittered forward in a blur, swiping at him and knocking him backwards into our car. Scrambling to his feet, he opened the passenger door and reached for the glove compartment, paying little attention to the mantis’s continued approach.  

“Hey!” I yelled, trying to buy the marksman a few seconds. “Over here, ugly!” 

The mantis twitched, looking at me, and I quickly charged Pulsar with my remaining energy, launching it into the creature’s midsection. Arcs of yellow electricity washed across its exoskeleton, seemingly stunning it for a moment, but it swiftly recovered, hissing at me as I summoned Pulsar back into my hand. I assumed a fighting stance, smirking at the beast. 

“Made you look.” 

The telltale click of a revolver hammer being thumbed drew the mantis’s attention back to Cylinder, who took aim with the massive Pfeifer-Zeliska he’d retrieved from the glove box. Before the insect could react, he fired a shot, sending a bullet through the air that imparted four tons of force into its head. A piece of the carapace above its eye flaked away, and it screeched again. This time, though, it abandoned its assault, opting instead to turn and scurry down the dimly-lit street. As it faded into the darkness, Cylinder sighed.  

“We’re going to have to stop it, aren’t we?” he dejectedly asked. 

I began to follow Cylinder as he gave chase, but I sensed someone in a nearby alley behind me. As their presence became known, a quiet voice floated through the air. 

“Turbine! Hey!” 

Spinning on my heels, I squinted at the darkness, but I saw no one within. Their aura, too, had faded, leaving nothing behind. 

“You coming?” Cylinder called impatiently, hefting his Pfeifer-Zeliska with both hands.  

I shot the alley one last glance before turning back around. “Yeah. Let’s swat this bug.” 

________________ 

We tracked the mantis through the alleyways of New General City, following the chunks of brick and asphalt it had carved out with its massive, spiny body. Fortunately, we managed to avoid encountering anyone else, and I hoped the same was true of the mantis. After half an hour, as I felt myself beginning to tire out from the footrace, I heard glass shatter in the distance, and traded a worried glance with Cylinder.  

Rushing around the corner of the building we’d been passing, we almost missed the shop that had been damaged: A little bakery labeled MA’S CAKES N’ PIES. The window, completely decimated, betrayed the mantis’s poor attempts at stealth, and within the shadows of the shop we saw the telltale green shell of the creature. Cylinder took aim with his revolver, but something caught my eye, and I grabbed his arm.  

“Wait a second. What’s it doing?” 

We both leaned closer, squinting into the bakery. The mantis hunched over the counter, clawing at the display case of massive, multi-layered cakes. As we watched, it cracked the glass, shoving its head inside and closing its mandibles around a red velvet cake. The icing smeared across its carapace, creating such a bizarre and unexpected visual that I couldn’t help but to stifle a laugh. After consuming the red velvet cake in seconds, the mantis moved on to what appeared to be a lemon cake, scarfing it down. 

“Should we . . . arrest it for shoplifting?” Cylinder asked me, lowering his revolver. 

“Do you have any handcuffs big enough?” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. 

Suddenly, the mantis twitched, seizing up so sharply that its head punched a hole in the bakery ceiling. We tensed, prepared for another conflict, but the mantis ignored us, lying flat on the ground. Steam rose from the flesh beneath its exoskeleton, and I saw green goo pool across the floor as the mantis began to liquefy. The outer shell of the creature pulled apart, tumbling across the bakery, and I sensed something new flare to life from within the remains. 

Something familiar. 

“I can’t believe it,” I gasped. 

Vaulting across the broken window and into the shop, I made a beeline for the drenched figure lying prone in the middle of the disjointed mantis shell. Along the way, I grabbed an old quilt that was mounted to the wall, presumably as decoration to add to the shop’s rustic charm. I reached my destination, tossing the quilt over the figure on the floor, and leaned close, speaking softly. 

“Are you okay?” I asked the girl who we’d rescued from the lab beneath the hospital. 

She looked at me, wrapped up in the quilt, eyes wide and frightened. “Where am I? What happened?” 

“You, uh . . .” I turned to see Cylinder approaching us, stepping gingerly across the broken glass. “You went through some kind of . . . transformation?” 

The girl looked around at the mantis’s remains. “Transformation?” 

“Yeah,” I nervously responded. “Probably a result of whatever Black Pharaoh’s goons were doing to you in that lab. If it’s okay, we’d like to bring you back to the safe house; maybe run some tests, to make sure this isn’t something that will happen again.” 

“Why?” Her eyes teared up. “Did I hurt someone?” 

I shook my head. “No. But I think you could have.” 

She sniffled, wiping the liquefied mantis flesh off her face. “Okay. I’ll come with you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

Her eyes narrowed, and she corrected herself. “Well, except the men who hurt me.” 

________________ 

“Well?” I asked, trying to restrain the impatience in my voice. “What do the tests say?” 

Textile eyed me, opening the paper that one of our allies had dropped off a few minutes ago. 

It had been almost a day since we’d brought the girl back to the safe house, but she had not transformed again since her stay. Still, I was anxious to know if S.S.’s blood tests and body scans had picked up on anything to explain our experience outside the hospital. This girl deserved a normal life, not one haunted by what Black Pharaoh had done to her. 

“For the most part, she seems fine,” Textile began. “Healthy.” 

“I’m fine?” exclaimed the girl, who’d been listening nearby. “I don’t think so.” 

“Well, there is one thing,” Textile continued, glancing at her. “Were you diabetic before?” 

The girl frowned. “I don’t think so.” 

“Hmm.” Textile folded up the paper. “It appears that your cells have been mutated, able to spontaneously grow . . . something. A parasite, of sorts. And in the process, it attached itself to your blood sugar levels. If you get too hungry, it seems to trigger the transformation.” 

“That’s why the mantis went after the bakery,” commented Cylinder, sitting up in his chair. “It was trying to stabilize their shared metabolism. Once it returned to normal levels, she regrew from the mantis’s remains.” 

“Like a phoenix from ashes,” Piston added, biting into an apple.  

Textile chuckled. “Yes. How poetic.” 

“So, is there a way to cure me?” the girl asked. 

Textile sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe if there was a cure for diabetes. But pharmaceutical companies profit too much off insulin sales to ever allow such research to be done in earnest.” 

Tears welled in the girl’s eyes, and I felt a pang of guilt in my chest as she spoke through trembling lips. “What do I do, then?” 

“Well . . .” Textile hesitated, looking at us. 

“We’d have to get approval from S.S., in any scenario,” Piston began. “But . . .” 

“We can try to find your parents,” Cylinder interrupted. “Place all of you under witness protection. Can you remember anything? Anything at all?” 

The girl shook her head. “I still can’t even remember my name.” 

“That’s fair,” Piston said. “You’ve been through quite the crucible.” 

“Can I just . . . stay with you?” the girl asked. “You can make sure I don’t hurt anyone on accident.” 

I pondered the thought. “You’re so young, though. This isn’t a life I think you’re ready to–” 

“Please,” she quietly begged. “What else do I have? At least this way, you can help me get to the people who turned me into . . . this.” 

“I like the idea,” Piston remarked, tossing her apple core into a nearby trash can. “I was about her age when my grandfather started training me for the military.” 

“See?” The girl smiled. “Your boss said yes.” 

“Boss!” exclaimed Cylinder, snorting. 

Piston smirked. “Oh, I like her.” 

“You’ll need a name, though,” I insisted. “What would you like us to call you?” 

“Hmm . . .” she thought for a moment, then glanced at Piston. “What was the word you used before? When you were talking about what I went through?” 

“Oh,” Piston paused before responding. “I said you’d been through a crucible.” 

“Crucible.” the girl seemed to savor the word. “Yeah. Crucible. That’s what I want to be called.” 

“Rolls off the tongue,” Cylinder said dryly. “Welcome to the family, Crucible.” 

________________ 

I squared up to Crucible, raising my hands in half-hearted defense. “So, if you encounter an attacker, you want to make sure you–” 

Crucible darted forward, striking out with a surprisingly quick uppercut. I moved to block it, but the force of her punch belied her size, and I reflexively lashed out in response to the blow, punching her in the sternum and knocking her into a seated position. She coughed and winced, clutching her chest as I leaned forward, helping her back to her feet.  

“I’m so sorry,” I profusely apologized while she dusted herself off. “I was taken a little off-guard by how hard you hit.” 

“No worries,” she reassured me, cracking a smile. “What, you thought I’d hit like a girl?” 

I chuckled. “More like, you hit harder than any hundred-pound person should be able to.” 

“Maybe it’s the thing inside of me,” she speculated, “wanting to be free. It makes me stronger.” 

“It’s possible.” I shrugged. “Hopefully we don’t have to find out firsthand. This is just to protect you from the kind of enemies our team tends to make.” 

“Fuck that,” Cylinder interjected, joining us in the safe house’s gym. “The people who came for you, they could easily come back. Just like Turbine, and Textile, and myself, you have to play to your strengths if you’re going to survive.” 

Crucible cocked her head. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, to start, you’re strong, yeah? But, like, maybe ‘adult male’ strong. Your strength alone is not going to lead you to any successful fights against another SPI.” 

“So,” huffed Crucible, “what do I do?” 

Cylinder waved both arms at her. 

“Your hands – palms, knuckles, fingertips – they’re smaller, sharper, more agile. You should study Aikido, or a subset of the discipline. Your strength, combined with the size of your strikes, leaves you an ideal candidate for striking pressure points. Here, let me show you.” 

I grimaced, assuming a fighting stance in Cylinder’s direction. “You know, you’re a lot faster than me.” 

“But am I any stronger?” Cylinder asked. “Or more powerful?” 

Nodding, I ducked forward, clenching my right hand into a spinning back-fist. Cylinder moved like a leaf in a hurricane, drifting effortlessly beneath my attack and clutching my extended wrist between tense fingertips. I felt myself lose control of my arm as he twisted around, bending my arm in such a way that I flipped over his shoulder, my back slamming into the mat-covered floor. My teeth rattled, but I laughed, and Cylinder released my wrist. 

“You’ve got to teach me that one,” I wheezed.  

“Hey,” Crucible called, “me first!” 

“Yeah.” Cylinder winked at me. “Ladies first.” 

________________ 

“What are you guys doing?” Crucible asked the four of us, entering the room to see us huddled around a large computer monitor. 

“Learning about the enemy,” Piston absently replied, clicking through the frames of the video S.S. had sent us. 

Crucible hopped up onto the desk, twisting to look at the monitor. “What enemy?” 

I glanced up at her. “You familiar with Erica Leroux, the singer?” 

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah! She sings that one, song, uh . . . ‘you make me miserable lately . . .’” 

“’Mr. Mystery,’” Piston interrupted. “That’s the one.” 

“Well,” I continued, “we have encountered some . . . obstacles . . . in the last few weeks which lead us to believe that she is involved, either directly or indirectly, with a scheme to subliminally control people into committing various crimes.” 

“Really!” Crucible peered down at the monitor again. “What’s this black-and-white video have to do with it?” 

“It’s security footage, from her recording studio,” Textile explained. “While the four of us have been helping you settle in, our benefactor sent a SWAT team to arrest Ms. Leroux where our sources told us she’d be alone.” 

“Was she?” asked the girl. 

Textile shook his head. “She wasn’t there. But someone else was, someone we don’t know anything about. He was waiting for them. We think he’s sending a message: ‘Don’t come for Leroux.’” 

Crucible made eye contact with each of us, her expression expectant. 

“I don’t know,” Cylinder cautioned. “This is pretty violent.” 

“I just had a giant praying mantis rip me in half last week,” Crucible retorted. “Spare me.” 

Piston sighed, pressing PLAY. 

The grainy footage showed a team of eight men in body armor, wielding what appeared to be sub-machine guns, breaching the first floor of the recording studio. They made their way in a line down a narrow hallway, swiveling to cover each other. As the last SWAT infiltrator entered the building, something darted between him and the person in front of him, passing between two open doorways. The man clutched his throat, blood spraying from an arterial wound as he dropped to the ground, lifeless. 

Crucible’s eyes widened. “What was that?” 

Piston rewound the footage, playing it back frame-by-frame. Even at the slowest speed, we could hardly identify the blur as humanoid in nature. 

“Just keep watching,” Textile insisted, and Piston returned the video to normal. 

On the footage, the second-to-last SWAT member must have heard his comrade fall, because he spun around, calling out at his dead teammate. Suddenly, an arrow punched through the drywall to his right, spearing into his skull and pinning him to the other side of the hallway. Now the others were on alert, rapidly retreating into the more open lobby area beyond the hall. 

“Do we have other angles?” Crucible asked. “Other cameras, to see who’s doing it?” 

“Smart question,” Piston replied, “but unfortunately not. The building’s security system was subpar, at best.” 

“Don’t worry,” said Cylinder. “There’s more.” 

The remaining six SWAT infiltrators hurried into the lobby, forming a tight circle, guns pointed outward like an ancient Greek phalanx. Piston switched camera feeds, showing a widened view of their new environment. 

From the shadows of the security video emerged a man in padded, full-body armor, with a mouthless balaclava and dark eye-lenses obscuring all facial features. The chest of the armor housed the icon of an eight-legged spider, the silhouette as large as a dinner plate. Around his armor, the man wore a large fur coat, its thickness obscuring his exact size and dimensions. 

As the SWAT team turned to face the newcomer, he dashed at them, flicking his wrists from his sides. A spray of gleaming shuriken showered the air like shotgun pellets, biting into the two closest SWAT members with enough force to send them sprawling backwards. The other four members opened fire with their automatic weapons, but the man shifted effortlessly from side-to-side, avoiding most of the bullets while his coat seemed to soak up the ones who found their target. 

Still approaching the team, the man flicked his wrists again, and this time I registered that he was reaching into the folds of his coat at impossible speeds. As his hands emerged, he produced a pair of hatchets, hurling one directly into the face of the closest SWAT member. The blade buried into the shooter’s skull, and as he fell, the stranger twirled around the stream of gunfire, ricocheting the second hatchet off the floor, up against the nearest wall, and diagonally into the trigger-finger of one of the remaining SWAT members. As the shooter’s severed fingers fell to the floor, the coat-clad assassin closed the gap between them, shoving a long knife through his jugular. 

With two standing SWAT members and two recovering from the shuriken barrage on the floor, the assassin switched his stance, retrieving what appeared to be a butcher knife, and as he leapt at the standing pair of SWAT members, his arms twitched in a blur, the flat of the blade deflecting the bullets at nearly point-blank range. He brought the knife down on one of the men, severing their arm near the elbow, and as the man dropped his weapon in agony, the assassin lashed out like a snake, decapitating the final unharmed SWAT member. 

“Holy shit,” Crucible murmured, scrunching up her eyebrows. “You see stuff like this a lot?” 

We all remained quiet, watching the video play out. 

The SWAT member with the freshly-removed arm staggered away from the carnage, his stump leaking a concerning amount of blood. The assassin extended his arm in the escapee’s direction, revealing a small crossbow retrofitted with some kind of magazine at the bottom. He pulled the trigger once, sending a pointed bolt directly into the base of the fleeing man’s neck. As the man fell, the assassin took aim at the shuriken-covered pair on the floor, executing them with the crossbow as well. 

The assassin melted back into the shadows, and the security footage stopped, leaving us in stunned silence. 

“What do we know about this man?” I finally croaked, pausing to clear my throat before continuing. “Do we know anything?” 

“Only what the other officers are calling him,” Piston said. “’Huntsman.’” 

________________ 

 Piston, Cylinder and I watched from the edge of Textile’s workshop as he sat down with Crucible, holding a package in his hands.  

“Crucible,” he said, offering her the package, “you’ve been with us for a few weeks now. I’m not sure when, where or how we’ll need you, but we’ve all talked to each other, and we agree that it’s important to . . . respect . . . your condition. You’re driven to help people, and we want you to help them any way you can.” 

“That means using the mantis?” Crucible cautiously asked, taking the package from the man. 

Textile nodded. “We’ve been studying your biology, considering how to make your mantis transformations viable in our line of work, if you still feel the same way you did two weeks ago.” 

Crucible nodded. “I do.” 

“Okay. Open it, please.” 

She tore into the package, revealing a small, hooded, armored cloak reminiscent of Textile’s; hers, however, was indigo rather than blue. Eyes widening in excitement, Crucible swung the cloak over her shoulders, and a series of magnetic clasps automatically pulled together, covering her neck and body with a sort of flexible, armored dress beneath the cloak. She looked down at her attire, then up at Textile quizzically. 

“Well, we can’t give you normal clothes,” he explained. “Then, you’re just running around nude when you transform back. We can’t have that, of course.” 

Crucible tugged at her dress-cloak, pulling away one of the magnetic clasps before allowing it to fall back into place. “What makes this different?” 

Smiling, Textile tapped the base of his neck. “Your transformation cycle has what I call a ‘spawn point.’ An early gestation period, in which the mantis develops within your body, and your body develops within the mantis. Both begin at the tip of your spinal cord, and though the mantis that emerges from you is much larger than any of us, its neck and head grows out of that point.” 

“Oh.” Crucible cocked her head. “So, whatever I wear around my neck, the mantis also wears?” 

Textile pointed at her. “Exactly. Your ‘costume,’ for lack of a better word, dismantles itself along the rest of your body when you transform, leaving a neck brace that rides on the mantis and reassembles when you turn back into yourself.” 

“That’s beautiful, mate,” Piston spoke up. “I applaud your ingenuity.” 

Cupping his hand to his ear, Textile retorted, “I hear no applause.” 

Piston rolled her eyes as Textile continued speaking to Crucible. 

“Now, there’s also the matter of controlling the transformations, as well as the mantis itself. For the former, we’ve decided to take advantage of what the mantis needs. To induce hunger and lower your blood sugar levels enough to trigger the mantis, S.S. has employed some trustworthy chemists to manufacture a special progesterone tablet. When it’s time to pull you back, we’ll all carry concentrated glucose tablets, and one of us will feed the mantis a tablet to sate its hunger.” 

“Wow,” Crucible whispered. “How do you know this will work?” 

Textile chuckled. “We don’t, for sure. Why do you think we’re in my workshop?” 

Her eyes widened. “I’m going to transform now? What if I hurt someone?” 

“Well,” I said, stepping forward, “that’s what I’m here to try to prevent.” 

I pointed at a utility belt clasped around my waist, the circular buckle adorned by a ring of inactive glass panels. 

“What’s that for?” Crucible asked. 

“As I understand, many insects use various spectrums of ultraviolet light to communicate and navigate,” I responded, glancing at Textile for confirmation. He nodded, and I continued. “This UV emitter, combined with my bioelectric abilities, turns me into a beacon, of sorts. The idea is, I tell the mantis what to do, and the emitter translates that into a series of pulses the mantis will feel compelled to follow.” 

“The idea, huh?” Crucible skeptically commented. 

I shrugged. “We’ll test it here, before we apply the device to the real world. Obviously.” 

Taking a deep breath, Crucible asked, “So, when do we start?” 

Textile reached out and opened the girl’s palm, dropping a small progesterone tablet into the center. “Right now, if you’d like.” 

Clutching the tablet in her hand, Crucible gazed at the four of us, and we offered reassuring nods. She sighed, tossing it into her mouth and swallowing. A few seconds passed in silence before she spoke again. 

“How long do you think it’s–” 

Suddenly, she doubled over, bones audibly cracking. Blood pooled on the floor around her, and from beneath her indigo cloak, something larger than herself began to stir. Textile, Cylinder and Piston readied themselves, and I activated the UV emitter on my belt, trying to contain my nerves.  

“Here it comes, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Piston. 

The cloaked figure rose tall, taller than Crucible, and we saw flashes of green from within. I cleared my throat, ready to issue a command . . . 

Then, with a thunderous roar, the walls around us caved in, and a new hell appeared. 

Welcome to New General City, Pt. 8 – Alternative Medicine

Cylinder and I walked up to the front entrance of the St. Dymphna Hospital, patiently waiting for the motion sensor to let us pass. As the glass doors slid back, revealing a quiet lobby, we stepped inside, adjusting our janitor’s apparel. The receptionist glanced up, nodding approvingly at us, and we turned away from her, making a beeline for the elevators. I shifted uncomfortably as I walked, Pulsar weighing down my duffel bag. 

“Not many guards,” Cylinder muttered, looking over his shoulder at me. “I’m guessing security is a bit tighter where we’re going.” 

“You think?” I retorted as we reached the end of the hallway, punching the DOWN elevator button.  

The doors slid back, and we walked inside the cramped space, which we thankfully found empty. Cylinder pressed the button for the lowest parking garage level, and I felt something pull against my stomach as we descended. He glanced at me, and I nodded, keeping my eye on the floor indicator. As we reached “P3,” I concentrated, sending a shockwave from my body that caused the overhead fluorescents to explode, showering us in yellow sparks. The elevator rumbled to a halt as the cabin filled with darkness, and Cylinder quickly strapped a headlamp to his forehead. 

“Backup generator hits in thirty seconds,” he said, lifting the emergency hatch in the elevator’s roof. “Until then, we should be invisible to cameras and security sensors.” 

We scrambled up onto the roof of the elevator, Cylinder’s headlamp cutting a swathe through the darkness. Together, we peered over the edge, our gaze traveling down the thick metal cables holding us aloft until they disappeared into shadow. 

“Doesn’t look like the final floor to me,” Cylinder quipped. “How deep we talking here?” 

I reached out with my senses, examining the space below us. “Hundred feet, max?” 

Cylinder smiled, reaching for his duffel bag. “Good enough.” 

Joining him, I grabbed the grappling hooks and climbing rope, hooking the former to the edge of the elevator shaft while tying the latter around my waist. Around that moment, we heard a distinct hum, and I sensed power returning to the hospital above, kicking the elevator back into action. Cylinder and I traded glances before hurling ourselves off the roof of the elevator, the climbing ropes swinging us into the metal shaft wall with a heavy thud. 

“Thirty seconds doesn’t go as far as it used to,” grumbled Cylinder, tightening his grip on the rope.  

We rappelled in tandem, sliding down the shaft as our elevator rose further above our heads. Within a minute, we found our feet touching the bottom of the space, and we untied ourselves from the ropes, removing our janitor’s apparel to reveal our mission outfits underneath. I affixed my domino mask to my face as Cylinder donned his baseball cap, and summoned Pulsar to my hand as he retrieved new revolvers from the duffel bag. 

“What’s on the menu today?” I inquired, gesturing at his firearms. 

He glanced at me as he loaded bullets into the revolvers. “Nagant M1895s. Made with a system designed to seal the explosive gases from contact with the air. Essentially, a silent revolver. Well, a less deafening revolver. Textile tweaked the casing with some modern improvements to make it actually silent.” 

“Neat,” I said. “Just like the movies.” 

A shadow fell across his face, and he scowled. “No, the movies get it so wrong–” 

I gestured to the doors ahead of us, interrupting him. “Maybe this can wait?” 

“I . . . uh . . . yeah, I guess,” Cylinder sighed. 

Weapons in hand, we edged up to the sliding doors, pressing ourselves against cool metal. I reached out with my senses again, scanning for threats. 

“Nothing on the other side,” I said. “Nothing human, at least.” 

Cylinder nodded, and we pried the doors back, sneaking into a concrete hallway illuminated by white, flickering fluorescents. He took point behind me, Nagant revolvers raised, his eyes twitching as they assessed the area at an inhuman speed. 

“Do we have any working details about where the girl we saw is being kept?” I asked him.  

He shook his head. “The connection was severed after The Living Mortar blew up his house. For all we know, they already moved her out of here. But we have to try, right?” 

I gripped Pulsar tighter, thinking about the children we’d recently rescued from Vampire King and The Last Patriots. “That’s for damn sure.” 

We turned the corner, and I stepped in something wet, my feet slipping under me. I fell back, but Cylinder caught me at an angle, and I looked up at him, chuckling nervously. Together, we glanced at the floor . . .  

The blood-covered floor. 

“Dios mío,” I whispered. “What happened here?” 

Red glistened against the concrete, creating slug-like trails that dragged down the hallway. Bloody handprints adorned the walls and – I looked up – the ceiling? 

“Knowing our luck,” Cylinder muttered, “we’ll probably find out in a moment.” 

We pressed on, haloed by the fluorescent lights, which darkened as we progressed, hindered by bloody streaks and broken bulbs. A rotten smell filled the air, and I stifled a cough, covering my nose and mouth with the crook of my arm.  

“Over here,” I choked out quietly, gesturing to a door on the left. “I’m sensing something consuming a great deal of power this way. Possibly some kind of computer array.” 

Pulsar gripped tightly, I pressed against the door, edging it open and peering through the crack. I neither saw nor sensed anything alive, so I pushed the rest of the way through, holding my breath as I crept inside. As Cylinder followed, I surveyed the dimly lit space, trying to parse its contents. 

A series of computer banks lined the far wall, their buttons blinking red and green and highlighting unfamiliar characters, though I couldn’t see the contents too well. Obscuring the computers sat four glass columns, stretching from floor to ceiling, filled with a viscous, clear fluid. The fluid suspended one object per container, each one stranger and more foreign than the last. Cylinder and I approached the columns, examining them. 

The furthest to the left housed a massive blue jellyfish that I recognized as a man-o’-war, its long tendrils pressed against the glass as if it were trying to push its way through to freedom. The second column contained a black, faceless alligator, its skin so ridged and rubbery that it almost reminded me of a car tire. In the third column sat a cluster of severed, purple tentacles, their edges frayed like the petals of a wilted flower. My eyes traveled to the last glass tube . . . 

Which had been shattered, its contents missing. 

I turned to Cylinder, asking the obvious question. “What do you think–” 

Rapid footsteps interrupted me, and I twisted my neck in time to see a black-masked silhouette rushing towards us. I clutched Pulsar tightly, swinging the flat of the blade into the would-be attacker’s face with a sharp crack. The newcomer flipped onto their back, scrambling backwards across the floor in a series of sharp, unnatural movements. The mask, I now realized, was no mask at all; rather, it seemed that the man’s face was covered by a black spider the size of a dinner plate. 

“What the actual fuck,” gasped Cylinder. 

The man rose to his feet like a puppet pulled by its strings, the body of the arachnid on his face twisting a little to allow its eight glistening eyes better access to us. The spider’s legs tightened around the back of the man’s head, and he reached for a holster on his hip, retrieving a long combat knife.  

“It’s the security,” I said, realization striking me. “This was the lab security we saw in The Living Mortar’s video stream.” 

“Not anymore,” Cylinder quipped, raising one of his Nagant revolvers and pulling the trigger. 

The bullet ejected from the firearm with a harsh whisper, silently whizzing through the air and striking the spider’s carapace. The exoskeleton cracked, a two-square-inch portion flaking away, and green goo oozed from the wound. I heard the spider screech, its cry drilling a sharp pain through my eardrums and into my skull, and the man it was attached to staggered back, dropping the knife. Cylinder fired again, penetrating the hole he’d created, and red blood sprayed from the back of the man’s head. The screeching ceased, and both arachnid and human crumpled to the floor. 

Nearby, just beyond the lab, more footsteps approached, rapid and scrambling like the man we’d just killed. I reached out with my senses, but I couldn’t identify any bioelectric activity. 

“They’re dead,” I explained to Cylinder. “Whatever’s approaching, they’re dead already. The spider, it was controlling a corpse.” 

“I guess ethics is a non-issue, then,” Cylinder replied, and I nodded, readying Pulsar. 

More spider-faced men burst into the room, flooding the space, and Cylinder opened fire, his rapid, precise shots downing the first wave before they could take a second step towards us. After a few seconds and four downed bodies, he pulled his arms to his chest, ejecting spent shells. I stepped forward, hurling Pulsar at the closest attacker. It spiraled across the lab, bisecting the closest spider-face, before returning to my open hand. I spun low, slicing horizontally, and shredded two more of the creatures as they reached out for me. 

“Ready!” Cylinder yelled, and I ducked below a new storm of bullets, bodies dropping like flies around me. “Reloading!” 

I returned to my feet, pressing my palm against an approaching spider-face and emitting a small pulse, the transistor coils in my suit amplifying the electricity enough to deliver a lethal shock. Smoke rose from the spider as it reflexively constricted its legs, bursting its host’s head like a watermelon in its death throes. Rushing past the collapsing corpse, I slashed out with Pulsar, cutting through the spider-faced men.  

The harsh whispers of Cylinder’s revolvers grew closer, and I saw that he’d joined the fray next to me, replacing the Nagant in his left hand with his Bowie knife. Together, we carved a path through the creatures, downing them with blades and bolts and bullets. After a minute, we found ourselves surrounded by a sea of corpses, chests heaving as we tried to catch our breaths. 

“Whatever they were experimenting on,” Cylinder wheezed, “it looks like it got the better of them. We can’t let these things get out of this lab.” 

I nodded, activating my watch. “Textile! I need your help.” 

A brief pause, then Textile’s voice rang in my earpiece. “What’s up, kid?” 

“I’ve got a remote bypass with me,” I said, producing a small USB device. “Can you hack into these computers and activate some kind of purge protocol? A laboratory like this surely has one.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Textile replied. “Just make sure you two are out of these before it deploys.” 

“Three of us,” Cylinder corrected as I inserted my remote bypass into a nearby computer port. “We don’t know that they took the girl. In fact, I don’t know that anyone had the chance to leave the lab since these spider-things escaped.” 

“Agreed,” I said, scanning the area again. To my slight surprise, faint bioelectric feedback triggered in my head, and I pointed at the door the spider-faced men had come through. “That way. Something is still alive.” 

We rushed into a new hallway, hurrying down the corridor towards what appeared to be a set of restrooms. As we approached them, four new spider-faced men appeared, but we were able to incapacitate them with our weapons before they could harm us. I kicked open the restroom door marked WOMEN’S, storming inside while Cylinder took watch in the hallway. 

“Hello?” I called, reaching out with my senses again. The bioelectric signature drew me to the second bathroom stall on the left, and I approached it. “Is someone in here?” 

I heard the slight whisper of feet sliding back against tiled floor, and I turned toward the stall door. 

“Don’t be scared. I’m not one of those things out there. I’m here to rescue survivors, particularly a young girl I saw being tortured in this laboratory.” 

A brief pause, then the stall door clicked as a latch on the other side was slid back. The door creaked open a little, and I saw a hazel eye peer out at me. 

“I’m not that young,” a girl’s voice weakly whispered. “I’m almost fifteen.” 

“Okay,” I conceded, “I’m not here to debate ages. I just want to make sure you survive the night.” 

The door opened the rest of the way, and an olive-skinned girl with long, black hair stumbled out, wearing a white, blood-splattered hospital gown. She collapsed into my arms, and I kept her on her feet with one arm, holstering Pulsar to better hold her.  

“What’s your name, chiquita?” I asked softly. 

“I . . .” she hesitated. “I can’t remember.” 

“Okay, okay,” I responded. “Climb on my back. I’ll carry you out of here.” 

“I’m hungry,” she said. “They don’t feed me well. I’m really dizzy.” 

“I got you,” I reassured her, crouching so she could crawl onto my back. I felt her bare feet dig into my hips, her spindly arms almost strangling me as they wrapped around my neck. “Maybe loosen your grip just a little bit, though.” 

She relaxed slightly, and I headed out of the bathroom, nodding at Cylinder. “Got her.” 

“Good,” he said, gesturing down an unventured hallway as he drew his second Nagant. “Because we have more friends coming.” 

A fresh horde of spider-faced men swarmed into sight, and the girl on my back screamed in my ear. I turned away from them, sprinting down the path back to the elevator as Cylinder opened fire. I almost slid as I turned into the lab, not yet accustomed to the girl’s added weight. A spider-faced man popped up in front of me, and I reflexively lashed out with a forward kick, delivering a lethal dose of electricity into the host body that propelled it across the room. It collapsed, smoking, and I pressed ahead, barely registering the faint tinkle of spent bullet casings splashing across the floor as Cylinder reloaded behind me. 

“Textile!” I yelled, my lungs aching as I sprinted. “Please tell me you have the purge protocol activated!” 

“Almost there,” he responded calmly. “But yelling isn’t going to speed up the process.” 

I gritted my teeth silently, turning a final corner and sprinting towards the elevator door. As I reached the metal barriers, I frantically pried them apart, pushing back into the elevator shaft. I turned around and saw Cylinder still at the other end of the hallway, sending a flurry of bullets into the spider-faced men. 

“Hey!” I called as he stopped to reload. “Multi-task!” 

He ran to us, filling his handguns with fresh bullets, and as he crossed the gap, he dropped to the floor, sliding the rest of the way into the shaft, simultaneously firing behind him. Another ten attackers fell from his onslaught before I could shove the door closed again. 

“Any time, Textile,” I whispered. 

An alarm sounded on the other side of the door, and I saw a red light flash through the cracks. A series of heavy thuds alerted us to the presence of the spider-faced men as they frantically tried to pry their way to us. The door began to pull apart, and Cylinder stuck a Nagant through the opening, firing into the crowd until they released it. I heard something hiss, and then a rush of crackling flame, the heat reaching us even through the thick metal doors. Dozens of shrill cries reached our ears, then all silenced at once, leaving us in smoke-filled darkness. 

“Better?” Textile asked. 

I sighed. “Yeah.” 

The girl on my back moaned. “I’m so hungry.” 

“Don’t worry,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “We’ll get you some food as soon as we get out of here.” 

I felt her stomach gurgle against my back, and a pang of sympathy struck my heart. 

We spent the next few minutes scaling back up the ropes we’d left behind, pausing at the lowest parking garage level to pry open the elevator doors. Stumbling into the garage and returning the girl to her feet, we took a moment to catch our breaths, scanning the dark sea of cars for hostile movements. When none presented themselves, we pressed on, climbing the levels until we reached the main floor, making a beeline for our car. When we were within arm’s reach, though, the girl collapsed on the asphalt, groaning. 

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m so weak.” 

She raised her trembling hands, showing them to me. 

“You got, like, an energy bar in the car, or something?” I asked Cylinder, but as I turned to face him, a bioelectric signature flared to life near me. 

A pulse of life, large life, coming from within the girl. 

“I feel like I’m gonna–” she began, but never finished her sentence. 

The girl collapsed to the ground, stiffening her limbs with enough force for me to hear bones snap. As she arched her spine, the cracking continued, like the world’s most gruesome accordion. Blood poured from her mouth, and under the harsh lights of the hospital parking lot, I saw her eyes roll into the back of her head, leaving nothing but the whites. 

Cylinder and I immediately rushed to her aid, but as we touched her, sharp shards of something protruded from just under the skin, nearly slicing through our flesh. I backed away reflexively as green spines erupted from her epidermis, spraying the asphalt with blood. Something stirred within her midsection, inflating like a balloon, and she split in half like a coconut, gurgling in her own bodily fluids. A shadow rose from inside her remains, stretching three, six, nine, twelve feet into the air. The streetlights and stars mixed together, bathing the thing in white light. 

“Dios mío,” I croaked, my concern for the girl superseded by terror for my own fate. 

Stretching a dozen feet over our heads, mandibles clicking and antennae twitching, stood a green-shelled praying mantis. 

Make a one-time donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

DonateMake a monthly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate monthlyMake a yearly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate yearly

Welcome to New General City, Pt. 7 – Citizen’s Arrest

The night grew quiet by the river docks, the slosh of subtle waves the only sound infiltrating the nearby warehouse. Moonlight drifted through the building’s skylight, bathing dusty wooden boxes in a brilliant white glow. A shadow cast across the ceiling-bound window, projecting an elongated humanoid shape onto the floor within. The skylight suddenly shattered, and a white-cloaked man in aviator goggles streaked downwards like a comet, landing with enough force to fragment the concrete around him. 

S.S. was right, I thought, watching from the shadows. The data they pulled from The Living Mortar’s computer provided them enough personal information to predict his next move. 

Across from where I hid, I saw Textile rise from behind a pile of boxes in full armor, his injured arm temporarily returned to function by a mechanical exoskeleton laced across it. He silently retrieved his hydraulic bow, notching a bolt onto the string and pulling it back. I nodded at him, and he nodded back through his faceless mask, taking aim at The Living Mortar. 

The mass-murdering Public Servant walked over to one of the nearby boxes, ripping it open with his bare hands and rummaging around inside. After a few seconds, he retrieved a large, black duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Glancing up, he bent his knees, preparing to fly again through the demolished skylight. 

Textile’s bow released a sharp hiss as he depressed the trigger on the handle, releasing the string. The bolt jettisoned forward, spiraling straight for The Living Mortar’s temple in a silver blur. At the last second, The Living Mortar turned his head in the direction of the noise; the bolt’s sharpened point connected with his forehead . . . 

And harmlessly bounced away, clattering across the warehouse floor. 

“You thought that would kill me?” the man laughed, adjusting his aviator goggles. “More bullets have flattened against my bare skin than were fired in World War One. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with ten-story monsters made of teeth and spite. You’re just a man with a bow and arrow.” 

A small cylinder emerged from the boxes behind him, rolling across the floor and stopping at his feet. He turned to look at it, and I closed my eyes as the flashbang exploded, filling the room with blinding light. He yelped, and the moment the light faded, I opened my eyes again, dashing out from behind the boxes. From two other corners of the warehouse rushed Textile and Piston, the latter unleashing a barrage of shotgun blasts into The Living Mortar’s midsection. 

“Are you serious?” he yelled, clearing his eyes as he blindly swung his fists, otherwise unfazed by the ammunition expending into his torso. As he blinked, swiveling his head around, Textile stabbed him in the back with his katana, but the metal blade snapped in half, joining the spent bolt on the floor. I charged Pulsar and launched it at The Living Mortar, but he saw it in time to side-step the attack, and my electrified weapon crashed into the boxes behind him. 

The distraction from our attacks was all that Piston needed to get close enough, though. She tossed her shotgun aside, drawing the Udar revolver she’d held onto since our highway kidnapping. Extending her arm, she pulled the trigger, and the handgun emitted a concentrated cloud directly into The Living Mortar’s face. He backed away, covering his mouth, and coughed heavily, trying to purge the vapor from his lungs. 

“Too little, too late,” Piston said, holstering the Udar as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out on the warehouse floor. 

Textile sheathed his broken katana, gingerly rubbing against his injured arm. “That sedative won’t last long. We barely got three minutes out of the chloroform putty.” 

“Better not waste time, then,” she replied, picking up the shotgun and taking aim. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” I cautioned, extended my arm and summoning Pulsar back to my hand. “We have him now. We can just keep him sedated until we imprison him somewhere he can’t escape.” 

Piston shook her head. “The risk is too high, mate. He’s too powerful, and he has too much internal knowledge of The Public Servants and other high-ranking political and military leaders. Their families; their weaknesses. Even the program itself – he helped modify it when he joined. He could easily help Black Pharaoh create new, evil SPIs.” 

“Assuming he hasn’t already,” Textile added. 

Piston took aim again. “Exactly.” 

I sighed, backing away. “It’s not my first rodeo killing bad guys out of necessity. But this one was a Public Servant.” 

“No,” Textile disagreed, hanging his head. “He just pretended to be one.” 

With that, Piston pulled the trigger, discharging a point-blank shotgun blast directly into The Living Mortar’s face. 

I looked away, dismayed, but Piston and Textile’s concerned murmurs drew me back to the scene. I saw the smoke clear, revealing the traitorous superhero completely unharmed. Piston put her hands on her hips, and Textile sighed, shaking his head. 

“So, he maintains his density shift even when he’s unconscious,” he said. 

Piston looked at me, then back at Textile. “You know what that means. We’re moving to Plan B. Tactical retreat.” 

We hurried out of the warehouse, and I snatched up The Living Mortar’s mysterious duffel bag along the way. Pushing our way out onto the moonlit dock, I saw our beat-up blue sedan waiting for us at the water’s edge. We quickly climbed inside: Textile in the driver’s seat, Piston in the passenger’s, and myself in the back with the duffel bag. A quick button press, and we were driving forward, the sedan converting to its amphibious form so that we were skimming across the water, boating away from the warehouse where we’d left our antagonist. 

“What did he have hidden here?” Textile asked as he steered the vehicle. 

I looked down, unzipping the container and spreading it open, exposing stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Uhhh . . .” 

Piston glanced back at the bag. “Holy Ghost, Turbine. That’s, like, a million dollars.” 

“More than that,” Textile commented. “A full duffel bag can hold closer to twenty million.” 

Piston and I both shot him a glance, and he shrugged. “What? I like to know these things.” 

My senses picked up on rapidly approaching bioelectrical activity, and I glanced through the rear windshield. “Looks like he isn’t giving up so easily.” 

The Living Mortar soared through the night sky, his white cloak fluttering behind him as he pursued us about twenty feet over the river. He snarled as he drew closer, glaring past his aviator goggles.  

“He’s altered his density so he’s light enough to fly,” Textile explained. “That means he isn’t bulletproof anymore.” 

Piston nodded, drawing her 1911 and chambering a round. 

“That feels like a major weakness,” I said. 

“Oh, it’s practically automatic,” Piston added, leaning out of the window and taking aim. “If he’s in danger, his body automatically shifts its density to repel the potential damage, before returning to its original state.” 

Realization dawned on me. “Oh, okay. You won’t be able to hurt him, but you’ll slow him down.” 

“Precisely,” Piston said, squeezing off a few rounds at the former Public Servant. 

The bullets whizzed through the air, and The Living Mortar expertly shifted his flight path, avoiding most of them. One struck his shoulder, though, and he suddenly sank, decelerating and almost striking the river’s surface before he corrected his density and returned to the sky. Piston ducked back into the amphibious sedan, reloading her pistol. 

“Almost there,” Textile announced, pointing at a patch of fog hovering above the water in the distance.  

Piston opened fire on The Living Mortar again, keeping him at bay as we approached the fog. By the time she emptied her second magazine, we were only yards from the edges of the vapor. She leaned back inside, speaking into her watch. 

“Now.” 

A single gunshot rang out from the fog, and a small projectile whizzed through the air, striking The Living Mortar in the head. More chloroform putty wrapped around his face, and he clutched at the adhesive chemical, his body switching back into “protective” mode. He dropped from the sky like a stone, splashing into the river and rapidly sinking, practically propelled into the depths by his enhanced mass. 

We entered the fog, slowing as we reached the outline of a small boat drifting on the water. I saw a figure wave at us, sensing Cylinder’s familiar presence. We quickly boarded the new vessel, deactivating the vaporizer attached to the boat’s underside, and the fog began to dissipate. Cylinder approached us on the deck, removing his thermal goggles and lowering his giant Pfeifer-Zeliska revolver. 

“I gotta say, Textile,” he began, opening the gun’s cylinder, “I wasn’t convinced your ‘putty rounds’ were going to work in this old thing. I suppose I should have more faith in that big brain of yours.” 

“Damn right,” Textile retorted, removing his helmet. “Did fire and rescue recover anyone from The Living Mortar’s place?” 

“Yeah,” responded Cylinder, sorrow twisting his face. “A valet, a Senator, an actress, and Treble Clef. They’re in the hospital as we speak. S.S. is spinning the story that The Living Mortar didn’t shift his density in time, and he died in the explosion.” 

“Treble Clef survived?” I clarified. 

Cylinder nodded. “Yes. But about thirty other people didn’t.” 

“What a shame,” The Living Mortar’s voice boomed. “I guess I’ll have to finish the job.” 

We all turned to see the man gliding down to the boat’s deck, clothes dripping wet, and I felt the air shift as his density rapidly increased. He removed his aviator goggles, wiping the water from his eyes. 

“I’d like my money, please,” he continued. “I can take it from you and kill you, or I can kill you and waste my night looking for the bag. Your choice.” 

We all assumed combat stances, raising our weapons in his direction. 

“I can’t believe this,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he stalked across the boat toward us. “You had to know I’d recover from your tricks and toys too quickly to drown. All of this has been a delay of the inevitable.” 

Textile lowered his wakizashi. “Did you touch the bottom?” 

The Living Mortar cocked his head. “What?” 

“Did you hit the bottom of the river?” Textile repeated. 

Frowning, The Living Mortar glanced at the rest of us, then back at the armored engineer. “I don’t see what that has to do with-” 

He suddenly doubled over in pain, landing on the deck on his hands and knees. He moaned loudly, interrupted by a stream of vomit that projected from his mouth. 

“What . . . what the fuck did you do to me?” he weakly demanded. 

He vomited again, collapsing on his side as he began to shiver and writhe in pain. 

We all lowered our weapons, and Textile stepped forward. “I’ve thought about you before, you know. Not just you, specifically, but all of The Public Servants. You may be powerful, but you’re still people. And people are fallible. Corruptible. The day of your defeat, your death, could one day be necessary.” 

The Living Mortar tried to stand, but he lost his balance before he could even get to his knees, slamming onto the deck again.  

“You, particularly, were a challenge,” Textile continued. “But I realized that despite your indestructible nature, you still needed to breathe. Therefore, you must have some kind of functioning circulatory system.” 

Moaning, The Living Mortar fell still, his eyelids fluttering. 

“Did you know that a rapid change in external pressure can force fatal levels of nitrogen into your bloodstream?” Textile asked. “It’s called decompression sickness, or The Bends. Divers get it sometimes, if they surface too quickly after diving past thirty feet. At the rate of your descent, you likely touched the bottom of the river before you regained control. That’s two hundred feet. And in order to return to us, you had to switch densities. Making you weak. Making you vulnerable to the decompression.” 

The Living Mortar didn’t move or respond. 

“Is he dead?” Piston asked me. 

I closed my eyes, focusing on his bioelectrical signature. “He’s got a heartbeat, but it’s weak.” 

“That’s okay,” Textile said. “He doesn’t have to die, necessarily. Common effects of The Bends are also major brain damage and paralysis. We just need him out of the game. Unable to do any more harm.” 

I sensed the prone man’s pulse spike, and he began to stir again, stretching out across the boat’s wooden deck. We all backed away slowly, preparing ourselves. 

The Living Mortar slowly rose to his feet, his soaking wet cloak hanging awkwardly behind him. He shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and smiled sinisterly at us. 

“You think you’re so clever,” he snarled at Textile. “But The Public Servants don’t share every detail about themselves to everyone. For example, my density shifting.” 

Piston and Cylinder opened fire on the man, but he shrugged off the bullets like they were marshmallows. 

“Do you know how often I fracture my own bones when I rapidly shift from lighter to heavier densities?” he asked as their weapons emptied. “It’s excruciating. Unbearable. That power alone would have killed me.” 

Textile and I lunged at him with our blades, but he batted us away like rag dolls. 

“I’m not just tough,” he said. “I’m resistant. Regenerative. I can heal, dumbass.” 

I crawled to my feet, readying Pulsar with another charge. 

“Of course, almost no one knows my secret,” The Living Mortar chuckled. “And once I rip you four to pieces and get my money back, it’ll stay that way.” 

“You’re awfully money-focused for a government-sponsored national hero,” Cylinder quipped. “You act more like a common thief than a super-powered celebrity.” 

A common thief.  

The words echoed in my head as I flashed back to my hostage experience during the bank robbery, and I buried my face in my hands as a thought occurred to me. 

“Dios mío. I’m such an idiot.” 

Piston, Cylinder, Textile, and The Living Mortar all turned to me in unison. 

“What is it?” Piston asked. 

“He’s not a traitor at all,” I continued. “Not really.” 

The Living Mortar scowled as he processed my words, and he lunged at me, murderous intent behind his eyes. 

Concentrating, I emitted an electrical pulse. 

Yellow sparks showered all around us as The Living Mortar dropped at my feet, hands pressed against his ears. He screamed in agony, and I knelt down, staring at him. Reaching out, I pulled his hands away, plucking two small, metal earpieces from within his ear canals. He collapsed, his screams fading, and murmured to himself. Returning to my feet, I held up my hand, displaying the electrified earpieces. 

“Oh my God,” Textile gasped. “I almost killed him.” 

Piston and Cylinder rushed to assist as I reached down and helped The Living Mortar stand back up. The man looked at me, doe-eyed, tears forming. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice shaking and timid now. “You saved me from hell.” 

He leaned against me, his legs wobbling. 

“I haven’t really slept in months,” he added. “Not since she took control of me.” 

Burying his face in my shoulder, he began to sob. 

“The things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. There’s no forgiveness for me.” 

I embraced the man, hugging him tight as I spoke. “Listen, don’t do this to yourself. You had no autonomy. You are not responsible for the things that you did.” 

“You said ‘she,’” Cylinder commented. “Who is she?” 

The Living Mortar wiped his eyes, pausing for a moment as he tried to piece his memories together. 

“Was it a young, blonde woman?” I pressed. “Maybe five-five, in her twenties?” 

“I never saw her,” The Living Mortar finally responded. “Just her associates. Black Pharaoh’s goons; the Russians; more mind-controlled civilians. They called her The Phantom.” 

I traded glances with the rest of the team. 

“If you never saw her,” Piston asked, “how did you know she was a woman?” 

“Because her voice has been in my head constantly for the last few months,” he whispered. 

I tilted my head curiously. “Her voice? Giving you instructions?” 

“No, no,” The Living Mortar shook his head. “The things I did, they just came to me, like impulses. I always knew what to do without hearing explicit directions. No, what I heard was music. Her voice, in song.” 

“What song?” Textile asked. 

“I don’t properly remember the words,” The Living Mortar admitted. “But I heard it everywhere. It goes like . . .” 

He began to hum a tune, and my blood ran cold. He didn’t know the words, but I certainly did. 

“Mr. Mystery, you must’ve missed me!  

Mr. Mystery, you make me miserable lately.  

Mr. Mystery, maybe we could make some  

Magic, oh baby, sweet Mr. Mystery . . .” 

Make a one-time donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

DonateMake a monthly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate monthlyMake a yearly donation

Your contribution is appreciated.

Donate yearly