Praise for The Fire Inside: A Sidekicks Novel

“The cast of characters is vivid, believable, and well rounded. The dialogue and

relationships are brilliant. The world the author has created is complex, realistic and most likely

allegorical. I’m not an accredited scholar, but what I can tell you is: I. Want. More.”

-- Michelle, Reading Lark

“So many books are great all the way up until the ending at which point the author

seemingly gives up. Not the case with The Fire Inside. The ending was perfect, wrapping up all

the loose ends in a way that was fitting for the story.”

-- Kelly, Reading Between the Wines

"Rose’s world building is well done and again quite a visual masterpiece. I really

enjoyed this book. Usually when you read a book of superheroes there is an expectation of

unbelievability, and yet Rose makes you believe. That is a trick all in itself."

Leslie Wright, Blogcritics

"Really, I can't say enough good things about this book, and I can't wait for the next

Sidekicks novel!"

Katie B, GoodReads user

"The action and mystery created a book that was hard to put down and was a constant

page turner. The characters in the book are both well written and interesting."

Dragonflyy419, Dragonflyy419's Attempts to Combat Boredom

First Edition, September 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Raymond M. Rose

Cover photography by Marcus J. Ranum

Artwork and Book Design by Raymond M. Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means

whatsoever without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a

reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

Christopher Williams Books

www.raymondmrose.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.

Raymond M. Rose

Novels:

Sidekicks

The Fire Inside

Black Mirror (coming soon)

Boyertown Quartet

Better Together

Short Stories:

Philly-Punk

The Franklin Incident

Mr. Dad

Career Path (coming soon)

Acknowledgments

There’s a whole world of people I would like to thank in helping me get to this point as a

writer.

First, my mom and dad. They were supportive of everything I have done. At no time did

they ever tell me that I couldn’t do something. They have always been my rock.

Next, my sister for always having my back over the years. She has been my biggest

cheerleader and my best defender whenever I needed one.

To my wife. I couldn’t have done this without you, honey. I couldn’t be here today, a

whole man, if it wasn’t for you. You have supported all of my crazy schemes, case in point.

To my sons. Although you don’t say that much right now, you both have no idea how

much you inspire me. By just being who you are, you make your father want to do you proud.

To all my friends who have listened to my crazy ideas over the years, guided me when I

needed guidance, or just let me go when I needed that too: thank you. I wouldn’t be publishing

my first book if it wasn’t for all your support. Thank you, especially, to Paula for the years as

my unofficial first reader and editor.

And to Stephen King, Michael Chabon, Joss Whedon, and Brad Meltzer. In each way, all

of you inspired me to write what is in front of you. You have no one to blame but yourself.

The Fire Inside A Sidekicks Novel

Raymond M. Rose

“Well I looked my demons in the eyes,

laid bare my chest, said do your best, destroy me.

You see, I’ve been to hell and back so many times,

I must admit you kind of bore me.

There's a lot of things that can kill a man,

there's a lot of ways to die,

listen, some already did that walked beside me.

There's a lot of things I don't understand,

why so many people lie.

It’s the hurt I have inside

that fuels the fire inside me.”

- Ray LaMontagne

Ten Years Ago...

Osprey ran out of the stairwell door first. He was a handsome young man (just a few

months into nineteen), lean and tall. He wore his jet-black hair short and a domino mask framed

chocolate brown eyes that darted around the room, marking the three men. All were in crimson

leather jackets – the signature of one of The Rook’s badasses. One drew a pistol, another a knife,

while a third swung a nasty-looking machine gun. The black leather cape fastened to Osprey’s

grey tunic flapped behind him as he leapt and tucked into a roll, gunfire filling the small kitchen

with a deafening clap-clap-clap. Windows exploded, tile chunks flew, and pieces of white

dinner plates rained down like hail as he rolled across the faded linoleum floor. Without

hesitation, he leapt onto his feet and catapulted himself for the shooter.

Behind him, Osprey’s best friend, Sparks, stormed out of the stairwell, the stomping of

his rubber boots being the only sound of his arrival. He was a blur of dark blue (his fire resistant

body suit) and red (his hair) as he slammed into the thug with the knife, his powerful body a

locomotive bearing down on the strung-out henchman.

Osprey heard bones crunch and metal clang to the ground as he dropped the machine-

gunner with a quick roundhouse then jerked to the right, cartwheeling across the decaying dirty

blue linoleum as the third thug unloaded his pistol. The kitchen pulsated with light as the

henchman fired on Osprey and–

WHAM! The thug got clocked aside the head, turning slightly to see flaming eyes before

a follow-up punch sent him pitching into darkness.

Osprey bolted after Sparks, his friend already flying through the living room and foyer.

They’d woken up, tied to chairs, in this deserted house. Osprey had no idea how they’d gotten

here or where here was but he was going to find out.

Sparks threw open the door and they ran out of a run-down rowhouse on a street that

didn’t look much better. Osprey spied a few parked cars.

They needed to get uptown fast!

* * *

Minutes later, they were shooting uptown on a main thoroughfare. Osprey was in the

passenger seat gripping the 'oh-shit' handle while Sparks drove the car, pushing it as fast as it

could go. Feeling Osprey glancing at him, Sparks turned his way. Osprey said nothing but

they’d been best friends long enough that a glance was sometimes as loud as a scream. “What?”

Sparks asked.

BOOM! Straight ahead, thunder shook the air and the sky flashed an intense orange for a

second.

“Nothing. Just keep driving.”

“You’re sighing over there like my mother.”

“You never knew your mother.”

“I imagine she was sigher," Sparks snipped. "All the women I’ve ever met have been!”

“It’s just... could you have stolen a slower car?”

“Don’t start with me!”

“You had to pick a lunchbox that can’t hit fifty without losing pieces!”

“And the station wagon you were eyeing was a gem?”

“That was a solid car!”

“A solid piece of shit!”

“Look, I know you’re worried. So am I but—“

“Your father’s life isn't at stake!”

Anger suddenly flared in Sparks’ chest like a lit match, all brimstone and combustion.

Gripping the steering wheel like a vise, he jerked it to the left, swinging around an abandoned car

in the right-hand lane. More empty cars were ahead, the drivers probably having run off. Sparks

could see smoke in the distance and flashes of green, orange, then blood red. He jerked their car

around another, his own thoughts warring. “Look! Just because I'm no one’s sidekick doesn't

mean that I don't care about what's happening—“

“I know. I'm sorry. I know that they... that The Rook means a lot to you too...”

Ahead, the heavens rumbled and the two young men watched a lone man fall from the

clouds, the buildings swallowing him.

“Just get us there fast. Please.”

Friday

JUNE 16TH

Chapter One

Jack King lay in a place somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, a part of his brain

knowing that he should get up. Another part, one that was stronger and quite expressive, told

Jack to go the frak back to sleep. However, he felt Rachel stir beside him and knew that all was

lost. As if to further that point, his cell phone alarm sounded, first vibrating then belting out

some smooth jazz melody that was the least offensive of all his pre-programmed ringtones. Jack,

well practiced in this most important of actions, reached out unseen, grabbed his phone, and

pressed SNOOZE.

“Good morning,” Rachel purred in his left ear.

“No talky. Sleep.” Jack replied, pulling the sheets up over his head.

“I have to get up. So do you.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to be in court by ten. And, if you don't go into the store, Cecil will

probably burn the place down in some antisocial form of expression.”

Jack pulled down the sheets, his eyes peeking out at her. And what a sight she was.

Wrapped up in his sheets, she revealed nothing but the shape of the lithe form underneath. He

still had no idea why this beautiful, intelligent, funny lawyer wanted to spend her free time with

him.

“Right....” Jack groaned and got out of bed, the chillness of the slightly-open window a

little wake-me-up against his naked body.

Rachel just lay back, watching the show. And whistling.

“You like what you’re seeing?” Jack asked her as he tugged on underwear.

“Oh, yes.”

Jack grabbed his t-shirt. Before he slid it on, he motioned to the end table beside the bed.

“There's something in there for you. I meant to give it to you last night but I got—“

“Distracted?”

“Something like that.”

Rachel leaned over and, as she looked in the drawer, chided him, “Oh, Jack, I hope it's

not a ring because it's just so....” Her words faded away as she found not a ring but a single brass

key. She picked it up, turning it around in her fingers. It had a few slivers of metal shavings still

attached to it. “Is this for me?”

“I want you to be able to come and go as you please. I got a dresser drawer all emptied

for you.”

She suddenly burst into the biggest smile, thin tears in her eyes. She leapt out of bed and

pounced on him, laughing with joy as they fell to the floor.

Jack was going to be late for work.

* * *

An hour later, Jack rode the escalator up the two stories from the stale-air subway to an

overcast morning above. He had both hands on each railing, never a fan of escalators. Though

his thick sweatshirt kept out the morning’s dampness, it seemed to hang in the air like a mist.

Out of the station, he made a slight left and crossed the intersection. The city was oddly

quiet this Friday morning. Though it was right in the middle of the run-as-fast-as-you-can-from-

the-subway-to-your-job morning rush, not many people were on the streets. The streets, the

signs, the buildings – tall steel monoliths in this newer area of the city – seemed just as still and

cast in same gray hues of the clouds above. Downtown Claremont seemed devoid of all color

and still asleep.

Then he saw the park.

And what he saw made him stop abruptly.

Remembrance Park, the center of Remembrance Square, was in bloom, determined to be

colorful when the rest of the world refused to be. Outside her crimson wrought iron gates, a line

of dark blue trucks stenciled with CITY WORKS CREW sat. Men in matching uniforms carried

white wooden chairs into the park, setting them up in rows in front of a long granite wall. The

Memory Wall, as it was called, was covered in names etched into the shiny, stone face. These

same workers had planted lively pink, yellow, and purple flowers all along the Wall’s base.

Today was The Naming Ceremony.

And he'd forgotten.

Seeing those empty chairs sitting in front of the Wall, though, Jack couldn’t help but let

that old friend, sadness, in. The chairs, sturdy and strong, were poised to take on the weight of

those who had lost loved ones ten years ago. Ten years of pain and heartache, only to come back

to this park, a place that had been the epicenter of so much death, and revisit those emotions all

over again. How could such torture be honoring the dead, really? It was like public flagellation.

Jack left the edge of the park and made his way deep into the north side of Remembrance

Square with its variety of restaurants, droves of trendy clothing shops, a trio of cell phone

boutiques, two coffee houses, and a bookstore. Someone, years ago, had thought another way to

best honor the dead was to enshrine them in consumerism.

Jack walked into the bookstore where he worked. It was clean-looking from the outside

with big windows full of interesting displays and lots of signage. Inside was the same: no

precariously stacked book towers, tall shelves that blot out the sun, or cats. Downtown Books

was a casual reader’s bookstore – not a haven for true bookstore hobbits.

“Jack...!”

Though, it did have its share of woodland creatures.

Cecil, behind the information desk, looked like one of the 'talking trees' from The Wizard

of Oz – a long trunk of a frame, stick-like fingers, and an angular face with a gnarled nose and

shrewd eyes enlarged by Coke bottle glasses. Jack had once found him lovingly holding an

apple and had almost pissed his pants from laughing so hard. Cecil was one Jack's two ‘Banes of

His Existence.’

The second – and the source of Cecil's current whining – looked spot-on for the Mayor of

Munchkinland: squat, rosy-cheeked, and always decked out in his finest clothes. For Norm,

though, that was Sci-Fi-themed t-shirts. Today’s read HAN SHOT FIRST and, coincidentally, he

was reading a new Star Wars paperback. He glanced up at Jack and instantly began to perspire.

“Uh... Hey... Jack.”

“Jack...," Cecil whined again, clawing at Jack's arm with his impossibly-long fingers.

“He’s doing it again.”

Jack used to work mornings with another bookseller, Silvio. But Silvio had decided to

pull a 'Felicity' and follow some girl he barely knew to college. He'd been a liar, pathological

thief, and stuttered heavily. God, he missed Silvio.

Jack swallowed his slowly-rising anger. “What’s the problem? What's he doing?”

“He hasn’t bought that book.”

“Cecil, we’ve been over this: the boss is okay with customers reading the books in the

store even if they haven’t bought them.”

“He’s dog-earing the pages.”

Jack bit down on his tongue. This shtick was such a regular bit that Jack often thought

about taking it on the road. “Let’s just let it go today, okay? “

Ever persistent, Cecil exclaimed, “But, Jack, he’s cracking the spines!”

Jack thought for a moment about cracking Cecil’s spine but instead said in his best Mr.

Rogers’ voice, “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

Jack walked over to Norm and was about to speak his name when the man cut him off

with a verbal explosion. “Jack, I’m having a crisis of faith!”

“To be honest, Norm—“

“I don’t think I love Star Wars as much as I used too! I think the prequels really did me

in. Even the books aren’t—“

Jack cut him off with a wave a la Jedi. “Stop!” Norm did. “I’m sorry that you are

having a crisis of faith but you can’t deface the books if you haven’t—“

“Cecil, you’re such a Judas!” Norm suddenly screamed past Jack.

“Jack, he’s yelling at me!”

But Norm wasn’t done: “That’s because you’re a tool—“

“I’m just doing my job!”

“You can take your job and stick—“

“WILL THE BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?”

Norm felt a slight wave of heat rush over him and he shut up instantly.

Cecil, utterly terrified, cowered behind his book.

Jack hissed through gritted teeth, “The both of you are driving me crazy.”

“He started—“

“If he wasn’t—“

“SHUT. UP.”

They did.

“I’m going to go get a cup of coffee before I murder one of you.” He pointed to Cecil:

“Leave him alone!” Then to Norm, “If you’re going to damage the book, buy it. I have no

qualms about calling the cops on you for loitering.”

“Hey—“

But Jack wasn’t listening.

He just left the store.

Chapter Two

Bruce Webster stood under a chalkboard sign that said 'Order here, dumbass.' He was in

a coffee shop around the corner from Jack’s bookstore, trying to get the attention of a tall red

head cleaning a metal pitcher. She was strikingly beautiful – like turning a corner and bumping

into a six and a half foot Viking goddess. Casually, her shockingly violet eyes glanced over at

him, then, realizing that there was someone there, she turned, her ponytail whipping behind her.

“Hi! I'm sorry I didn’t see you there!”

Bruce moved the black messenger bag strung across his muscular frame just slightly and

flashed a smile that could have said anything from 'No big deal' to 'You better impress me!' The

meaning was really in eyes, though, which looked like pools of melted chocolate in the café’s

soft lights.

Katrina must have read something nonthreatening in them because she smiled and said,

“What can I get you?”

“Cappuccino, please.”

“Decaf?”

“Dear God, no!”

She laughed. It wasn’t a girlish giggle but a laugh of a woman comfortable with herself.

“One leaded cap coming right up.”

She started making his drink.

Bruce took a moment to casually glance around the café, trying to look like a tourist. He

saw the usual café fare: black and white photography splattered across latte foam-colored walls,

small tables that had four seats but really only sat two, and two female waitresses looking at him

hungrily. Normal. The only original thing was the sign he was standing under.

And the barista behind the bar.

Feeling that enough time had passed for his conversation to still be perceived casual, he

began, “Was it around here that those beatings happened a few months ago?"

She didn't look up. "There was some trouble. Just some local toughs trying to prove

something."

"Yeah...?" Bruce shrugged. “I heard that someone stopped them.”

Now she looked up. And Bruce could have sworn she looked slightly taken aback.

She might have looked even more surprised if she'd seen the pistol that he'd pulled out of

his holster.

Suddenly, the door behind him opened and someone stormed in, yelling, “Tell me you got

something stronger than espresso?”

Hearing Jack’s voice, Bruce turned away quickly, hiding his face. And the gun.

Oblivious, Jack stormed past him in his assault on the counter.

Katrina still eyed Bruce cautiously as she spoke to Jack, “Which one is it now?”

“Would you believe both?” Jack replied, putting his head down on the counter with a soft

thud. “Can you make me a mocha with lots of chocolate and whip cream?”

“Do you want sprinkles?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes. But only for the sex.”

Jack looked up, a blush on his cheeks.

Katrina laughed embarrassingly and went to make his drink.

Bruce couldn’t help but glance at the both of them. Jack likes this woman. Interesting.

Jack saw him. “Bruce? What... what the hell are you doing here?”

Before Bruce could even reply, Jack was hugging him. “I had to come into town early.”

“Agency business?”

Glancing at Katrina, he said, “Something like that.”

“God, it’s good to see you! You look great!”

“So do you.”

Jack, actually, did look good. The weight he'd put on since he'd retired was gone. His

hair, though, was still a wild, red mop and his skin looked as if it never saw the sun. But the air

about him definitely seemed... happier. Almost, at peace.

For Jack, that was saying something.

“It’s all my clean living,” Jack replied.

“Jack, here’s your large quadruple shot mocha with extra chocolate and whip cream.”

Jack took his drink. “Thanks...”

He took a sip, then noticing Katrina there, nodded to Bruce. “Katrina, this is my best

friend Agent Bruce Webster. Bruce, Katrina.”

Bruce shook her hand. “It was good to meet you.”

Katrina eyed him carefully. “Yeah...”

Jack motioned to the door. “I have to get back to work...”

Katrina motioned to Jack, “Before you go, Oliver said take whatever pictures you need

for tonight.”

“Pictures?” Bruce asked, glancing from Jack to Katrina. “Tonight?”

“Jack has an art show,” Katrina replied, motioning to the photos on the wall.

Bruce, intrigued, left them and walked over to the black and white images that he'd only

given the most casual of glances before. On closer examination, though, he could see that the

photos were much more than ordinary. All set in Claremont, they were of people sitting in

outdoor cafes, a child playing in a puddle that reflected the Spears Building, a couple kissing

passionately under The Arch, a lone man standing in front of The Memory Wall, his fingers

lingering over names. “These... these are all yours?”

Jack glanced at the photos he’d taken, developed, matted, and framed. He smiled.

Bruce turned back to the photos. They were so still, so crisp, so alive. He could hear the

faint organ music and laughter of the children as the carousel horses paraded around; smell the

spent gasoline fumes of the fire swallower; and feel the raindrops fall on his head as two lovers

kissed in the rain. “My God, Jack, they’re wonderful.”

* * *

Outside the café, Bruce glanced at Jack, “So how long have you and Katrina been

together?”

"Together?" Jack asked, glancing back towards the coffee shop. "Nothing's going on."

"Why? She so wants to birth your babies!”

Jack laughed. “Unfortunately I’m spoken for these days.”

“Really? Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Her name is Rachel. She’s an attorney.”

“A hot lawyer?”

“Very.”

“Excellent,” Bruce grinned. “But if things don’t work out, you shouldn’t miss out on

Katrina. She’s quite the catch!”

“We went out a few times before but there just wasn’t any—“

“Sex?”

“—spark!”

“Jack, you create sparks.”

“It wasn’t right for us.”

“Well,” Bruce said, clapping his hand on Jack's back. “You’ve been a busy boy!”

“I’ve been living my life, Bruce."

Bruce smiled at that thought. Jack had never really known how to live... at all, before.

This, of course, made him having something of a life now... difficult.

And depressing.

Jack stopped and turned towards his friend. "Okay, cut the bullshit and tell me really

why you're here a day early?”

Chapter Three

On a street full of row homes, porches littered with battered tricycles, paint-peeling

barbeques, and rusty lawn furniture, Agent Karen Webster knocked on the front door of a bright

blue house. She had the rusty screen door open, her body a dark shape through the dirty screen.

Karen had picked clothes for her first day in the field that she thought were smart, professional (a

white silk shirt, a black vest that had these great silver buttons, and a pair of matching slacks),

and yet, still, sexy. She thought she looked like a banker. Karen was well over six feet tall, long

and slender. Her hair was as black as the devil’s heart. No one was going to mistake her for a

banker.

According to the files, she was knocking on the door of one Simon Fort, 28 years old and

a Claremont native. It didn’t say much else; it didn’t even say what he could do. But she didn’t

need a file to see that Simon Fort wasn’t worth her time. Not showing up at a previously-agreed

time and place said enough.

Overhead, the clouds that had been rumbling all morning decided to open up and rain

down. Karen hurried back to the cab that she’d hired at the airport. Inside, enveloped in warmth

and the scent of freshly-peeled oranges, she gave the cabbie her next address. As the driver

headed north by northeast through the city, he put on his music again (something with harps,

cymbals, and a dying cat). Eventually, he stopped at a tall brick building with windows that

showed various stained glass designs. Karen asked him to wait for her again and he nodded.

As she ducked through the door into the apartment building lobby, Karen automatically

glanced behind her, surveying the scene. Bruce was teaching her to do this: to look for

inconsistencies, things just a little out of place. For Bruce, they were good indicators of bad shit

about to go down. They were clues to save lives – others and your own. At that moment,

nothing looked funky; everything was as it should be.

“What are you waiting for, a bus?”

Karen turned around to find a little girl in pigtails and a pink Augusta t-shirt looking at

her. She was adorable, a ball of fire in a cute exterior. Looking at her made Karen's arms ache to

hold the girl, to hug her.

The lobby's walls were lovingly-covered with chalk murals of faraway places and

reproductions of famous paintings. Karen stared in amazement. “Did you draw all these?”

“No, silly! There are lots of people who can draw real good. My mom drew a Mona

Lisa.”

“Do you know a woman named Morgan?”

“Do you mean Fey?”

Karen nodded.

The girl lit up with a smile. “Of course! She’s one of my bestest friends!”

“Do you know which apartment she lives in?”

Suddenly, the girl was all serious, hands on her hips. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m a police officer.” Karen slowly pulled out her ID. “I need to talk to her.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not—”

“She’s a really good person!”

“I’m sure she—”

“She makes my chalk animals talk!”

Words were about to leap off Karen's lips when she stopped them. She makes my chalk

animals... talk? “That’s something I would like to see.”

“Okay.” The little girl tensed her body and screamed up the stairwell, her voice echoing,

“HEY FEY, YOU GOT A VISITOR!”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Fey poured tea into a Claremont Art Museum mug and handed it to

Karen. The herbs and dried fruit set off a burst of smells, all pleasant. They sat at a round table

in a small dining room, a glass ball on a pillow in the center of the table. Karen took a sip of her

tea, finding it just as tasty as it smelled.

Sitting across the table was Morgan ‘Fey’ Conner, a petite young woman in a chair

slightly larger than she. Fey was a splash of color: light peach skin, cobalt blue eyes, pale pink

lips, and caramel short hair. She wore a Persian red print skirt with a crisp white t-shirt. The

room, itself, reflected that dance of colors: the crimson, gold, and tangerine tapestries of all kinds

of origins, dark brown bookshelves lined with books that ranged from trashy romance novels to

thick tomes on spiritualism, and the antique cherry display case showing off an odd collection of

wooden tribal masks.

Fey, the glass ball in front of her swirling in purples and blues, asked, “Are you sure you

don’t want me to read your fortune?”

“No, thank you," Karen asked, setting her mug down. "I would like to talk to you about

your abilities.”

And Karen watched in utter fascination as Fey, unconsciously, reached out with unseen

hands and 'changed' the frown on a tribal mask to a smile. Fey smiled nervously. “Certainly.”

* * *

An hour later, Karen got back into the taxi and gave the driver the final address. This

time, he chose some classical music and Karen settled back into her seat to watch the city pass.

The sun had decided to come out, bringing a strong end-of-a-storm sunlight. She bathed in its

warmth as she let her mind drift. Fey was more powerful than Karen had imagined. To be

honest, she was probably more powerful than Bruce thought also.

They left the college neighborhoods and headed downtown, the old co-ops giving way to

brownstones lining a park that had a big red barn. The Claremont Zoo. As they continued, the

park changed into curving streets full of outdoor cafes, trendy shops, and men and women in

stylish business clothes.

The driver made a left, shot up a busy thoroughfare, and turned right onto Lincoln

Avenue in the heart of the shopping district. Karen watched stores that she loved, a massive

multi-storied mall, theaters, horse-drawn carriages, throngs of shoppers, and a castle-like

building pass by her window.

Originally from an Ohio farm town, Karen hadn’t set foot in a big city until college.

Even though she now lived outside of Washington DC, she still couldn’t help but be awed by

cities. It brought out the little girl in her. The excitement of it all.

The sights and sounds that passed had her so enthralled that Karen didn’t even notice the

cab that pulled up next to her until the passenger was waving at her. She looked at the man: in

his thirties, sporting bleached blonde hair and a jagged scar over his left eye. He smiled at

Karen. That smile... Images suddenly flooded her: the same man with the same smile dressed in

Agency-issued sweats that said TRAINER. Oh my God! “Charlie?”

He grinned at her.

And pulled out a pistol, swiveling it around at her.

“GUN!” Karen yelled as she threw herself down on the backseat, expecting to hear the

roar of gunfire and feel the rain of shattered glass falling down on her.

But there was nothing.

No gunfire.

No shattering glass.

Nothing except for the driver yelling as someone cut him off.

Karen, her own pistol pulled, slowly peered over the door. Charlie Grossman wasn’t

there. Neither was the cab. Instead, an older woman drove a green Lexus.

Karen grabbed her cell phone and dialed her husband. Of course, there was no answer so

she decided to dial another. When the assistant picked up, Karen said, “Director Collins, please.

Tell him it’s Agent Webster.”

“Bruce!” Director Collins yelled into the phone as he came on. “What’s the upda—“

“No. The other Agent Webster.”

“Sorry, Karen. Is everything okay?”

“Does the local field office know we’re here?”

The cabbie turned left off Lincoln Avenue and onto a street completely swallowed in the

shadow of the high rises above it. It was as if evening had suddenly come for this part of the

city, muting all the colors and eerily quieting all of the sounds.

“Good lord, no.” Collins replied. “Why?”

“Because I swear I just saw an Agent that trained me in Basic.”

“Who?”

“Charles Grossman.”

Director Collins was suddenly silent. For a moment, Karen thought that perhaps their

connection had been cut. "Sir?"

He took a breath. “Agent Webster, are you positive it was Grossman?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Agent Grossman reportedly died two years ago.”

“What the hell does 'reportedly' mean?”

“It’s classified.”

“Director Collins, what the hell is go—"

“Agent Webster, I know that your husband and I haven’t kept you in the loop about

much. We did that for your own safety since you weren’t field-rated yet. But I need you to be

on top of your game right now.”

The cab passed a delivery truck and the hotel appeared to her right. Bruce had a safe

house inside– one of twelve throughout Claremont. Karen could instantly see why such a place

would appeal to Bruce. It was definitely old, built at least in the last century. Bruce had a thing

for Claremont’s history. The first five stories were made of tan blocks with detailed designs of

peacocks sculpted into them.

“Director Collins, I always bring my 'A game'.”

She hung up.

A uniformed man crossed under a large metal awning of hundreds of light bulbs to open

her door. “Welcome to The Claremont Hotel.” Karen paid the driver, stepped out of the cab, and

retrieved her luggage from the trunk. The cab pulled away as she walked into the lobby.

And all thoughts of undead Agents quickly disappeared.

The lobby was carpeted with a football field of repeating ornate designs and vibrant

colors. The pure white marble walls that lined the lobby were decorated with lavish candelabras,

bathing the cathedral of a room in yellow light and illuminating a ceiling that stole the show. It

was completely covered in lovingly-rendered frescos of Greek mythology scenes. The colors

were amazing: lush green of the pastoral scenes, deep blue of the seas, and the soft pink of the

gods and goddesses depicted. Surrounding the frescos were gilded patterns and painted bas

relieves. It all took Karen’s breath away as she slowly walked across the lobby.

She instantly knew then why Bruce had chosen this safe house for their stay: the lobby.

He’d chosen it for her.

I love my husband.

Chapter Four

Bruce kept walking for a few more moments, rounding the corner to the long stretch back

to Jack's bookstore. Hands in pockets, he said, “I need some help.”

Jack followed him, reading the obvious body language Bruce was putting out. “What

kind of 'help?'”

“An extra set of eyes.”

Jack took a sip of his coffee. Mostly it was to try to cover his nervousness. "What's

going on?"

Bruce shrugged a shrug that was nothing near casual. “I have to meet some people.”

“What kind of people?”

“People like us, Jack.”

That gave Jack a second’s pause. “Are you in trouble?”

Bruce chuckled. “No more than usual.”

“You’re lying.”

His smile was gone. He shrugged.

A deep voice suddenly sounded out from the Square. “Testing. One. Two. Testing.”

The two men turned toward Remembrance Park. The crew had set up a podium in front

of the wooden chairs, framing the unseen speaker in front of The Memory Wall. For now, it was

just one of the maintenance men, testing the mic. Satisfied, he left.

“The Naming Ceremony," Bruce said softly from beside Jack.

Jack couldn't see his expression because he was unable to take his eyes away. It was a

funereal tableau: some of the people at The Memory Wall just reading the names, some making

etchings with paper, and others delicately reaching out and touching the engravings, as if they

were gently caressing those who had died. Behind them, rows upon rows of people had sat down

in the chairs. Behind them were a wall of reporters, camera operators, and men with long, black

microphones.

Solitarily, a man in a black suit took the small stage and stood in front of the podium. He

wore three small pins in the shape of flames on his right pocket. Jack knew him before he even

said his name. “Ladies and gentleman, my name is Robert McDonald. And I would like to

thank you for coming today."

He paused while the crowd murmured their thanks back to him.

"In 1948, Claremont gave the World's Fair grounds to a small group of... of men and

women. They had fought valiantly in World War II, stopping Hitler's evil path in only a few

months... where it might have taken years, maybe decades. God knows how many lives were

saved by their involvement. Because these... Protectors could do things that we mere mortals

could not. Some could fly like birds, run faster than the eye could see, and... lift tanks over their

heads."

A slight murmur rolled over the crowd though McDonald's voice cut them silent.

"America... and the people of Claremont thought The Protectors their saviors."

Robert McDonald leaned into the mic so everyone could hear him loud and clear. "They

were wrong."

Jack could feel Bruce tense beside him. Of course, Bruce knew Robert McDonald's anti-

'powers' stance. McDonald's had pushed like a Sherman tank to persuade, cajole, and outright

purchase every politician he could to get legislature passed to outlaw anyone, except federal law

enforcement agents, from using their 'powers.' He wasn’t even crazy about Agents being able to

use them.

Jack also knew that Bruce thought McDonald was a dangerous man who took his grief

and anger and poured them into a battle he could fight. And win.

Jack thought the man had every right to hunt them down.

"Though they are gone, the Protector's children and a new generation of... freaks operated

recklessly outside the laws of physics to create a world that treated them like gods... and died

willingly at their hands. Every single name on the wall behind me..."

Jack closed his eyes and saw blackness as far as the eye could see.

"...the hostages who died during the standoff..."

He saw the husks of burned-out buildings, the ones that had stayed vertical.

"...those near the bank annihilated by the bomb..."

He saw the pockets of fires, gas lines still burning.

"...the police and firemen who died trying to save lives..."

He saw the plumes of black smoke that billowed up into the night’s sky, blocking out the

moon.

"...and the men, women, and children who were burned alive in the Fire..."

He saw the apocalypse wasteland this Square had been ten years ago.

"...their blood is on the hands of every single person with powers. Still."

Jack opened his eyes and, thankfully, it was gone.

McDonald seemed to take a moment's pause to stare down anyone in the crowd who

might argue with him. No one did.

"Please say a silent prayer to whatever gods you hold true. Pray for the wretched souls of

those murders. Pray for those who perished that day. And pray for us, we who survived. Pray

that we might finally... find... peace.”

A sea of people lowered their heads.

But not Bruce, he just shook his head and began walking again. Jack followed him.

"Look, I know that he lost people—"

"Bruce, his wife and kids—"

Bruce swung back to him. "I know! But blaming every person with powers is

irresponsible!"

They reached the door to the bookstore and Jack turned to Bruce. He didn't look at his

friend but held his head down, shameful of the words the slipped out of his mouth. "I can't help

you today, Bruce. I'm sorry. Especially today..."

Bruce didn't reply but waited until Jack looked up. "I know you can't."

"It's been so long and—"

Bruce smiled for Jack's benefit. "Don't worry about it, okay? You have things to do,

Jack. You have the show to set up for, right?"

Jack turned his head slightly. "Yeah..."

"I'm sorry to have bothered you—"

"Bruce you didn’t bother me—"

Behind them, Robert McDonald started reading off the names on the wall. Bruce didn’t

turn to look but watched Jack. "Just, remember, Jack: never forget who you are.” He turned and

pointed at the Park, blurting. "He might want you to forget who you are but you can never do

that."

"What am I, Bruce?"

"Pure fire."

Jack just nodded.

Bruce clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder then gave him a big hug. "I'm out of here. I'll

see you tonight."

Jack let himself be hugged and, when it was done, stepped out of the embrace. “Eight

o'clock. The gallery’s on Division. It’s the Winter Garden.””

“Eight," Bruce said with a casual salute.

“Be careful, Bruce.”

Bruce searched Jack's face. “I always am.”

Then he left, headed back toward the coffee shop where he'd parked his car.

Chapter Five

Yesterday, Jonathan had been ‘working the crowds’ when the envelope had arrived.

Standing in the hallway between the Amtrak platforms and Union Station, he had fixed the

commuters with his best starving-kid-needs-money-for-food face and held his plastic Big Gulp

cup out. Evening rush hour was primetime to collect some dough, often setting him up dinner,

some reading material, and, if lucky, the next day too. But nobody had been coughing up any

serious coin so Jonathan had plunked his fifteen-year-old lanky frame against the hallway wall

and pulled out a battered Teen Protector comic book he carried. Setting his plastic cup next to

him, he had begun reading his battered comic book.

He had been on the fourth page, where Osprey and Sparks stumbled into a nest of alien

eggs in an empty warehouse, when a cling-clang suddenly resounded from his cup. Surprised,

but too drawn into his comic book, he didn’t check the cup until he heard it again: cling-clang-

cling! Not wanting to jinx things, Jonathan had continued enjoying his comic and ignoring the

continued clinging of change being dropped in his cup. When he had glanced up to see how

much had accumulated, he had found a white envelope sticking out of the top of the change. It

had his name typed on the outside: Jonathan Evans.

Carefully, Jonathan had opened the envelope, finding a single piece of lined paper inside.

In precise typewritten words, it had said:

Please meet me on the west side of the North Cemetery by the Wilding family graves

today at noon. I want to speak to you about your ability. I believe that I can make you a better

shot than you already are (and from what I hear, you are pretty impressive). I want to make your

life better, but only if you want it.

Bruce

He had put the letter back in the envelope and the envelope back in the cup.

However, today, the envelope was sitting in front of him, on the counter of Union Station

Grill. He had a standing agreement with the owner of the Grill: Jonathan bussed tables, washed

dishes, and cleaned the kitchen in exchange for a hot meal. Plus, the owner’s wife washed his

clothes once a week. It was, all around, a sweet gig.

Jonathan watched the envelope as he ate a big bowl of cream of wheat. Mrs Avery, the

owner’s wife, put maple syrup on her cream of wheat like his mom had. It made Jonathan think

of happier times... before his mom had met the Meth pipe.

“Hey Johnny,” came a deep voice sitting beside him.

Joe, dressed in his usual dirty army surplus fatigues, sat down beside him. He motioned

to the envelope then pulled a menu out from behind the napkin holder. "You still got that, I see?"

Jonathan picked up the envelope, turned it over in his fingers. It had gotten dirty from

holding it so much. "Yeah."

“You gonna meet the guy or you still leaving?”

“I don’t know," Jonathan said, setting the envelope back down. "I’ve just been got that

itch. You know what I mean, right?”

Joe nodded sagely. "I do."

“I ain't never been to LA,” Jonathan replied with a grin.

Joe wasn’t biting. “It sucks.”

“Maybe," Jonathan shrugged. "But I’ve never been there.”

Joe nodded; a silent acknowledgement that the young man had won this round.

"Remember, Johnny: you got it good here. Sure, that man—" he motioned to the envelope, "—

might turn out to be a fake but you still got a place to sleep and eat... and people who care about

you... right here. Why would you want to throw all of that away?”

Jonathan could see in his eyes said that Joe knew something about that. Just maybe he

knew something about caring for people, too. Maybe he knew that people could let you down,

try to make you into something you’re not, or turn on you like a rabid dog. You stick around

people too long and the chances of getting hurt increases. It was simple math.

Joe set his menu down. "Why don't you meet that man and see what he has to say. If it's

nothing, come back here, please. Don't go without say goodbye."

Jonathan nodded and Joe left, leaving the young man to his cream of wheat. And his

plans.

* * *

Two hours later, Jonathan scrambled over the West End Cemetery fence, his well-worn

All-Stars landing on the other side with a slight squelch. He fixed the hood of his grey

sweatshirt, trying to keep somewhat dry. It seemed pointless, though, for it was coming down

heavily.

He’d stuck to the train tracks, following them through the deep tunnels that ran under the

city. Although the city didn’t use trains like it used to, there were still underground tracks

crisscrossing the city. And they were often safer than the streets.

He snuck through the cemetery, weaving around markers and mausoleums. The rain was

steady, making everything look alive with movement and soaking his clothes. He noticed people

walking around The Circles, three concentric circles of graves that marked the final resting place

of the heroes who’d died in the Battle. Most of the people looked like tourists: taking pictures,

pointing at the different statues, and placing cheap ceremonial coins on the more famous graves.

Jonathan made his way further into the west side. As he slipped around a large

mausoleum, he spied a man in a long coat standing in front an awe-inspiring statue of an angel.

This wasn’t some peaceful seraph but an archangel, wings outspread, sword in hand, and face

solemn as it watched over the cemetery. Written on the pedestal below the angel’s sandaled feet

was:

WILLIAM WILDING (1958-1996)

IT WAS NEVER ABOUT VENGEANCE.

Jonathan heard the man speaking... to the angel? He couldn’t quite make out what he was

saying so he moved closer. Suddenly, the man, never looking back, called, “If you’re going to

sneak up on someone, try not to rub your sneakers against wet stone. It makes a horrible noise.”

Jonathan stopped dead in his tracks.

The man turned around. He looked a little worse for the wear: clothes soaked and his

hair splayed over his face. However, his eyes radiated warmth and, oddly, trust. “Hi, Jonathan.

I’m Bruce Wilding." Bruce put out a hand for Jonathan to shake and continued. "I used to be

The Teen Protector Osprey.”

Chapter Six

A few hours later, Bruce, slightly drier, let himself into the safe house, quietly closing the

door. He set his luggage and messenger bag against the wall then went about surveying the

place. Though one of the hotel's three penthouse suites, Bruce’s father had purchased it back in

the 1970's. He’d thought no one would suspect a ritzy penthouse as a safe house. A year after

his death, Bruce had redecorated (the shag carpeting had to go) and retooled the place to be a

little more functional: a working kitchen, a living room outfitted with two large sleeper sofas,

and a bedroom with a king-sized bed. And a mirror that hid a cache of weapons.

He slipped into the bedroom, enjoying the sight of the naked woman on the bed. Karen

lay on her stomach, a crisp white sheet pulled up to the small of her back. The sheet was a map

of contours, all swells and smooth canyons. Her long black hair splayed over her shoulders.

Bruce stood there for a second, watching his sleeping wife. It still amazed him that he was

married. He’d always seen himself as a forever-bachelor, yet, when he’d met Karen, he’d known

instantly that his bachelor days were numbered. Now, he was happily married and when he

wasn’t on a mission, he was home for dinner, taking out the trash, a list of DIY projects on the

fridge, and even thinking about children.

Jack would have laughed.

Bruce carefully climbed into bed, running a finger slowly down her back, tracing her

spine. She shifted slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips. His finger slid up the arch of her ass,

hooking and drawing the sheet back. “I have a gun under my pillow.”

“Just one?”

She rolled over, her body bare to him. This always killed him. How could such a

beautiful woman be so comfortable naked around him? Didn’t she know the horrible, deviant

thoughts that ran through his head?

“I missed you."

He could hear the uneasiness in her voice. “Are you okay?”

“I just... yeah, I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“I thought I saw someone today... but it was nothing.”

“There’s some weird shit going on in this city.”

“That’s why we’re here, right?”

“Yeah...” His eyebrows arched, eyes looking for a hint of a smile. “We’re going to be

fine, okay?”

It came. “Yeah.”

She kissed him passionately as she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed her warm breasts

against his bare chest.

Bruce tried to speak but Karen kissed him harder. Deftly skilled, Karen grappled with his

belt and unbuckled it with a flick of the wrist—

“Hey! We’ve got to be at the art show—“

“What art show?”

“Jack has an art show tonight.”

“And we’re going?”

“Only the best places for my wife.”

She tugged off the belt. “I'll be quick.”

“That's really not much of an incentive, Mrs. Webster.”

“Trust me, Mr. Webster, I can change your mind.”

* * *

The gallery was packed. Literally, bodies were smacking against each other like

molecules in heat. The only light came from low wattage bulbs overhead and the various people

looking at their smartphones. Jack could barely make anyone out except for Rachel who was

right behind him, his hand firmly in hers. Her other hand had a glass of wine. That’s how he

knew that the three people who grabbed his ass weren’t Rachel.

Maybe that's what happens at your art showing: people grab your ass.

“This is unbelievable, honey,” she shouted in his ear.

“Could be a little... well a lot less people...”

Then everyone’s voices seemed to stop all at once by a single note played on a violin.

Literally, silence suddenly entered the room and Jack felt, for a moment, as if he’d lost the ability

to hear. Then a quartet of stringed instruments joined the first and something by Mozart filled

the room. A banjo plucked behind the violins, eerie and warming at the same time.

Jack felt his anxiety lessen.

And he started to enjoy the party.

The crowd near them parted and Katrina made her way through the throng, seeing Jack

and smiling. She was wearing a black dress that was conservative in the front but plunged like

Niagara down the back, revealing an Augusta tattoo just above her ass. “Wow! Hi.”

Katrina grabbed him and hugged him. “Jack, this is crazy! Congratulations!”

Katrina glanced past Jack for a moment and saw Rachel. She let go of Jack as if he was

suddenly hot. “Hi, Rachel.”

Rachel smiled softly, “Hi, Katrina.”

And then Rachel did something that surprised Jack: she hugged Katrina. Katrina looked

about as shocked as Jack did as she was sucked into Rachel’s embrace.

Embrace broke, Katrina, excused herself and went in search of a tall glass of champagne.

When she was gone, Jack glanced at Rachel. “What was the hugging about?”

“I wanted to tell her that I was okay with her being madly in love with you.”

“Not you too!”

“Who else says that?”

“Bruce. He said Katrina wanted to 'birth my babies.' His words, not mine.”

Rachel laughed. “She can have your babies. I just want you.”

Rachel looked around, as if she was trying to find something. “Where is your friend

Bruce anyway?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Bruce and Karen hurriedly walked down a back alley that Bruce knew as a shortcut. He

was telling a story from when he and Jack were young and his wife was smiling, something that

he hadn’t seen her do a lot lately. He knew he was to blame for that.

Bruce was a treasure vault of secrets. He didn’t want to be. He wanted to be quite the

opposite, open like a book. He wanted to do everything that his marriage vows asked of him but

sometimes there were things that were bigger than two people in love.

That was what was happening in Claremont.

It was still nice, though, to see her in that gorgeous cocktail dress she’d bought months

ago, smiling, happy, and eager to get to the art show.

It was so damn nice.

So, of course, someone had to come and screw it up.

“Then Jack tells her, ‘Perhaps you'd find your fucking husband if you had better fucking

glasses!’"

Karen laughed and felt her husband’s hand tense suddenly. “What is it?”

“We’ve got company.” He tugged the messenger bag across his chest a little tighter.

“The safe house is compromised.”

Two shapes stepped into the alley, their forms shrouded in shadows.

Bruce took the messenger bag off and handed it to Karen. She slung it over her chest, her

eyes never leaving his. “What do you want me to do with this?”

Bruce pulled the pistol he had on his right hip and checked the clip. All good. He

handed it to her and checked the left. Good also. “I need you to run.”

“We can take these two g—”

“Four. Two at the end. One following us. And one on the rooftops. One of them has

electricity. I can smell the burnt ozone every moment or so.”

He took out his cell phone and showed it to her. A mixture of emotions crossed her face

as she blurted, “I’m not going to leave you!"

"I'll be fine."

"I can take you with me!"

He turned to her, staring into her darting eyes. With each step that the men grew closer,

Bruce grew calmer. But to be completely calm, to operate on the level that he needed to operate

on, he needed her gone. Karen was still controlled by her emotions. And her emotions were

waves of anxiety that shone like a star. "Karen, I need to stay here. I can buy you some time to

get some—"

"Bruce—"

“This is bigger than the both of us," he told her, motioning to the bag. "What's in there

can't fall into the wrong hands. It needs to get to Jack.”

“There's no way in hell—“

Bruce kept his eyes on her but started punching numbers into his cell phone. “Karen, I'm

sending you somewhere safe. Have a few pints, enjoy the manly camaraderie, and I'll see you in

a little bit when everything's calmed down, okay?”

Before Karen could say something else, a small tear appeared in her left eye. Bruce

immediately reached out and grabbed it, scooping it up on to his finger. “I'll be there in a few

minutes. I promise.”

She watched him, her hazel eyes holding onto his. Bruce saw the fear in them, the way

they washed over his face. Then a steeliness that Bruce knew was Karen's core hardened her

features and the tears were gone. “Bring chocolate. You know how much I like chocolate after

beer.”

Bruce’s eyes never left hers. “Deal.”

He opened his cell phone and called the number of the pay phone in a cop bar he knew.

A strong voice said, “Flatfoot Bar. Bull speaking.”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

“With chocolate.”

Bruce smiled.

“I love you,” Karen said.

Bruce caught a glimpse of his wife as every part of her body turned into a glowing

incandescence. Her solidness started to waver, the brick wall behind her suddenly visible. Then

she flashed bright blue and Bruce had to look away. The alley bathed in that light for a second,

the whole world suddenly frozen as if a flood light had been thrown on.

When he glanced back, she was gone.

He closed his phone.

“Hey!” a voice yelled from the end of the alley.

Bruce turned to see the two men running at him.

Game on.

Chapter Seven

Karen appeared out of a pay phone in the backroom of a bar. There was an unused pool

table and wood paneling in every direction. She had caught a chair sitting next to the pay phone

as and stumbled to the hardwood floor. The man holding the pay phone was an older man, his

frame still solid like it must have been in the days when he was a cop. Karen, who had only been

an Agent for five years, could spot a cop a mile away. He held out a hand and helped her up.

"They got a front door in this place, you know, ma’am?”

She smiled her best smile. “Front doors are for sissies.”

He chuckled slightly as she left the backroom and stepped into the front of the bar. There

were large booths along one wall, round tables and chairs throughout the place, and a huge, well-

oiled hunk of wood lined with stools. The men on the stools were active or former cops, judging

by their posture and the way they glanced back at her. The bartender, wide as he was tall, had a

face that had connected with a few fists and maybe a lead pipe or two. “You must be Bruce’s

wife."

Behind the bartender was an ancient cash register, a row of liquor bottles, one of those

old-fashioned mirror whiskey ads, and a line of pictures, spreading out to rows and rows of

serious-looking men. Some of the photos were old, the frame, tint, and style of uniform said

1950’s, 40’s, and even a few from the 30’s. To the left were some that looked maybe a couple of

decades old while others a lot more recent. These had a pin in the shape of a flame on them: they

had died in either the Battle or the Fire afterwards.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I didn’t see you come in.”

She nodded.

“The name’s Bull. Pull up a stool.”

She took a seat. “Karen Webster.”

“Bruce told me that you might be showing up. He said if you did, that he’d call when

things were safe.”

Karen nodded to the man, not trusting her words just yet when it came to Bruce. Bruce

had obviously thought there was a chance things were going to go south because he had a

contingency plan. Of course, Bruce always had a contingency plan.

“What can I get you?”

“Something wet and with alcohol.”

Bull smiled a big grin. “For Bruce’s wife? Anything.”

Karen nodded her thanks. She’d encountered this before: people knowing Bruce, being

kind to her because she was his partner, his girlfriend, then his wife. At first, it had been strange

but then it got rather... well, normal. Bruce was the kind of guy who could go into any city and

either know someone or find someone to know instantly.

The pint pulled, Bull set it down on the bar. “You’re safe as long as you stay here,

ma’am.”

“’Cause everyone here’s a cop?”

“No. Because I have a big fucking shotgun behind this bar.”

* * *

An hour later, though, Karen had enough. She’d sat there as best as she could, trying not

to be nervous as the time passed. She'd chitchatted and read the newspaper. However, as twenty

minutes became thirty then fifty then sixty, Karen decided she just couldn’t stand it any longer.

So, she stood up and fixed Bull a stare. “I’m sorry, but I have to go find my husband.”

“You’re supposed to wait until he calls.”

“What if he can’t? What if he’s hurt?”

“He can handle himself.”

“I can’t handle not knowing.”

“Ma’am—“

“I know you’re trying to be a good friend. I’m trying to be a good partner and wife.”

She held up the messenger bag that she’d brought with her. “Can I leave this here?”

“Do you promise to come back?”

“Yes.”

Bull nodded, solemnly.

Karen took out a piece of paper from her pocket. She’d written the number of a pay

phone across the street from the hotel. She handed it to Bull. “Can you call this number?”

Bull picked up the phone and called. On the other end, the phone rang three times before

a cloudy voice said, “You Sam?”

Bull glanced back to Karen to say something but the words died right there in his mouth.

What he saw left him speechless, his mouth open like a useless thing.

Then she was gone.

* * *

Karen came out of the pay phone across from the hotel, landing on the wet street, her feet

giving out from under her and her knees splashing into a puddle of water. She pushed herself up,

feeling the gravel dig into her hands. The man using the phone had the receiver gripped tightly

in his hand, his face blanched. He opened his mouth a few times, trying to start a sentence but

nothing really happened until he was able to mumble, “Are... you... okay?”

Karen gave the man a polite nod then left him, crossing the street to the hotel.

Everything looked normal enough: the hundreds of lights under the awning; cabs lining the curb,

their bright yellow bodies lit by passing cars; and the patrons and bellhops doing their

improvised dance in front of the glass doors. Karen watched as a couple walked through the

doors into the lobby where people sat in comfortable and dry seats, relaxing. She longed to be

inside, her skin almost feeling the warmth. She longed for her husband more.

The traffic in front of the hotel cleared so Karen stepped out into the street. Walking

quickly, the passing cabs splaying their headlights over her, the rain visible in the light, she kept

watching the hotel in front of her, trying to see anything out of the ordinary. She reached the

sidewalk and hurried toward the entrance, double doors flanked by suits in armor. A doorman

glanced at her as she approached, flashing a bright smile. Karen nodded to him, faking her

smile. He began to pull the door for her, then his face seemed to change, the very flesh suddenly

gone liquid, flowing this way and that like a vat of shivering glue. The doorman's face

disappeared and another appeared: her... father’s? Her heart shouted DADDY! while her brain

screamed WHAT THE HELL? as she heard, to her left, a small creak as metal rubbed against

metal.

The face morphed again and the man that she’d known as Agent Grossman was right in

front of her, grinning. "Howdy, Karen!"

A flash of movement to the left and Karen glanced away to see a regularly-polished suit

of armor suddenly draw a mighty sword around at her. She ducked, feeling the swish of the

blade as it sliced around, whistling as it cut through air, just missing her flesh. Karen turned and

rolled off the expensive carpet and onto the wet pavement unprotected by the lobby awning. She

heard the sound of her gun falling to the ground but she had no time to grab it as she leapt back

up on her feet.

Everyone was in slow motion under the lobby. The people stood in clusters, shocked and

unsure of what was going on. A young girl cried in confusion a few feet behind Karen.

The knight stepped forward, taking off some of the exterior armor, revealing a leather

tunic studded with spikes and the bearded face of a man in his thirties. His eyes were flaring

purple and his teeth gritted with determination. He held the massive broadsword with both hands

out in front of him. “Where’s the bag?”

Karen didn’t reply.

Grossman was suddenly beside him, picking up Karen’s pistol. He motioned to her,

“Where’s the bag?”

She held up her hands. “Looks like I don’t have it.”

He shrugged and glanced at the knight. “Impale her and she’ll talk. I have a mess to

clean up.”

With that, he entered the hotel.

The knight swung his sword back, bellowing, “Tell me where the bag is and I can make

this painless!”

Karen tried to push Grossman’s words out of her mind (“I have a mess to clean up”) and

focused instead on the knight, her body as still as she could make it. Do not watch the sword.

Watch his eyes. Bruce had told her that if an opponent had a weapon, never watch the weapon.

Always watch his eyes. You’ll know then where he’s going to attack.

And sure enough, the knight’s eyes glanced at her right arm for a fraction of a second

before he brought the blade straight across, from right to left, planning to sever her in half like a

carcass hanging on a hook.

Karen spun as if she were slipping into a pirouette and, as she rotated 180 degrees,

dropped into a crouch, her left hand planted on the ground as the Knight’s blade passed above

her. She swiped the knight’s legs out from under him and rolled out of the way, the knight

crashing to the ground in a cacophony of armor.

Karen stood up quickly and bolted, booking across the sidewalk and into the street, the

alley she came from her destination.

A sharp honk of a horn and Karen glanced back to see the knight, who’d been chasing

her, suddenly hit by a cab, sending the villain’s armored body up into the air, cart-wheeling over

the orange cab’s hood, then crashing back to the ground with a sickening crunch.

Karen stopped in the middle of the street, her mind racing.

The cabbie got out, looking at the fallen knight and the front of his ruined car. Karen

could see the knight’s sword lying by the passenger front wheel.

I need a weapon. Karen bolted back toward the accident. The cabbie was arguing with a

man who had stopped behind him, their argument exploding into something other than English.

Neither of them paid much attention as she approached the knight.

He lay on his stomach, his head covered in blood. His armor was horribly banged up and

glistening from the rain. Karen didn’t have to check his pulse to know he was quite dead.

She knelt carefully, gripping the sword’s handle and lifting it up slowly. It was heavy but

she’d had some experience with a set of swords that Bruce kept at their house. This one was as

big as—

Suddenly, footsteps approached as a long scraping sound slid through the chaos.

Karen spun around, sword in hand, to see two more knights approaching her. Both of

them looked almost exactly like the dead knight, identical in face and physique, except their

armor and heads were unmarred. Both knights had swords that they brought up slowly.

“Where’s—” The knight on the left began.

“—the bag!” The knight on the right ended.

“Twins?”

“Copies.”

“Who’s first?” Karen asked, raising her newfound sword and leaping into battle without

even waiting for an answer.

Chapter Eight

The Agency was created the day after the Battle.

In actuality, it had existed for twenty or so years before. However, that horrible day, it

was thrust front and center because it was the only government Agency that dealt with policing

those men and women who could run faster than light, let electricity leap from their fingertips,

and weave circles around jet fighters in mid-air.

The day before the Battle, The Agency was a small Justice Department branch staffed by

men and woman that worked with the various teams of 'heroes,' like The Protectors, to help

police their own kind. Basically, to keep the self-styled 'badasses' from killing everyone.

The day after the Battle, though, there were barely any heroes left. But plenty of

badasses.

In the years to come, The Agency would grow like weeds. First, filling the whole left by

the destruction of The Protectors and the others of their ilk. Then the President would ask that a

small group stand guard over him during a visit to the Middle East. Next, The Agency's input

would be requested for intelligence briefings, the other agencies wanting to know what they

knew. Three years ago, The Agency, like some colonizing virus, folded the FBI and CIA into its

mass, tasked now to handle federal criminal investigation as well as intelligence stateside and

abroad.

However, ten years ago, while the country watched in horror the images from Claremont

and the police officers, firemen, and thousands of volunteers sifted through the destruction, a

young man had walked into a rundown trailer that served as The Agency's field office and told

the pasty-skinned girl behind the desk, "I'm in. I'm smart, strong, and my dad was a cop." After

Robert Manning had filled out the paperwork and shook the woman's hand, he told her, "Oh,

yeah, I can also see through walls."

* * *

Agent Manning pulled up curbside to a tall brick building, the rain, luckily, having

stopped. Of course, it was too late: the outdoor crime scene would already be fouled up. He slid

out of the car, his lean frame fit perfectly into a cloudy blue suit. He took his suit jacket from his

backseat and headed down the alley toward the glow of the mobile lamps the forensics boys

brought.

His eyes were tired. It had been a long day and his head had barely hit the pillow before

his cell phone had rung. The dispatcher on the line had told him that Madison Ave cops needed

Agency help on a case. Everyone knew The ‘Mad Ave’ cops were soft and lazy so Manning was

ready with a sarcastic quip when the dispatcher told him the body was ‘one of ours’.

A dead person was bad.

A dead Agent was very bad.

As Manning walked down the alley, the warning signals that a migraine was coming were

shooting off like fireworks. It took a lot for him to turn off his 'vision.' More to keep it off for

hours. It took concentration to see things as normal people do. This, of course, was essential to

driving. That concentration took its toll after awhile in the form of a usually-debilitating

migraine that left him useless.

Like the one that was starting now.

So, Manning let his eyes 'go.' As if saying a silent command, his eyes flashed and

instantly his vision changed from shades of darkened colors to the off-white of a blank piece of

paper. Suddenly, an unseen hand started to sketch thin lines in a graphite pencil, defining the

shapes of the buildings on both sides of the alley, making sure it got each brick and the fire

escapes. Then the unseen artist started drawing what’s behind the brick walls: business offices, a

warehouse full of crates, and a factory with an assembly line. The artist then turned to the alley,

sketching the men, shaping them with hatch marks, rendering their clothes, and even lightly

shading thin wisps as a plain-clothes detective smoked a cigarette. As with the buildings, the

artist delved deeper, drawing their skeletons underneath, the organs housed in their flesh, and the

ventricles, nerves, and such. Manning could even see that one of the detectives had an odd heart

irregularity.

As he walked further into the alley, the shape lying on the ground began to get clearer,

more detailed. The first thing that he saw was the blood. Although the world looked black and

white in his normal vision, blood always came across as bright, arterial red. It was mixed in the

rainwater, gathered in puddles under the body. It was a man; that much was clear. One that

seemed in good physical shape (except for a few past injuries) until three bullets had slammed

into his chest, burrowing long tunnels through the body as they ripped through meat and bone

with little thought to consequences before exiting out the man’s back like bees escaping a nest.

Manning noted that the entrance wounds were an excellent grouping.

He had been staring so intently at the body that he had no idea that he was being watched

until someone cleared the throat. Manning glanced up at the throat-clearer and seeing Detective

Letts’ face (and his skull, brain, and the tumor that was growing there) and his shocked

expression, Manning closed his eyes. It seemed that the way his eyes looked (completely white

and translucent, the inner workings of his eyes visible) scared the bejesus out of most people.

Especially, hardened cops.

When he opened them, Letts seemed to relax. “Did you see something?”

“In the body?”

Detective Letts nodded tentatively. “Yes...”

“Nothing special.”

The body was a brown-haired man in his thirties, skin once fair but now almost

translucent since his death, his body loosing temperature. He looked peaceful, his eyes closed,

head turned to the side. Of course, the bullet holes in his chest spoke differently. “He’s an

Agent?”

Letts handed the ID to Agent Manning. Manning took out a notebook from his coat

pocket and wrote down the Agent’s information. Frederick Sterling. Interesting name. He

glanced up at the men. “Document everything...”

His last word seemed to die in his mouth as his eyes flashed to their extra-sharp state for

a moment, seeing something up the alley. Manning slipped his notebook back in his coat and

headed deeper into the alley. Detective Letts, who had been taking pictures with a small digital

camera, noticed. “What do you see, sir?”

Manning didn’t turn around but answered all the same. “Blood.”

A series of bright red splotches made a line up the alley. He followed the trail, the sky

grumbling overhead. Manning walked by himself, though he heard Detective Letts’ footsteps

behind him, slowly, as if unsure. Manning paid him no heed. He was simply following clues.

They left the alley into another one behind the buildings. More blood leading to the left.

He followed: down the alley for half a block before stepping out onto a sidewalk, The

Claremont Hotel across the street. There were police there, two black and whites on the streets,

the lights painting everything in blue and red. Four uniformed cops were talking to people,

writing down notes in their leather notebooks like their fathers had years ago. Agent Manning

crossed the street and was about to ask one of the cops what was going on when he heard

Detective Letts running up from behind him, falling in step. One of the uniformed cops looked

up as they approached. He must have recognized Letts because he answered his question:

"What's going on?"

The uniformed motioned to the front door. “Some guy in a medieval costume tried to

slice up some lady.”

“Who was she?” Manning asked.

The uniformed looked to Letts, not knowing Manning. Manning pulled out his ID before

Letts could even tell the uniformed that it was okay. “Not sure. We're trying to get a description

now.”

Manning nodded. "What floor is the body on?"

The uniformed looked surprised by the question but regained his composure. "Top floor."

Manning could see the blood in the hotel, leading through the lobby. Without saying

anything else, Manning entered the revolving door and into the wonderful frescos on the lobby

ceiling. Letts continued to follow so they walked to the elevator bank together and got on.

In silence, they rode up the many floors, the tinny speakers above playing some ‘Smooth

Jazz’ travesty. With a ding, they stepped out into the center of a long hallway that encircled the

whole floor. There were fewer doors than on other floors, the rooms obviously bigger. The

blood was here too, yet it was visible to the naked eye. There was more of it than before, the

splotches and drops much closer together. They followed the trail.

It led them to a door manned by another uniformed, this one almost a twin to the guy

downstairs. Manning had no interest in asking, though. He just walked inside and, instantly,

saw the body on the plush carpeting, looking up. The head was toward them, as if the victim had

fallen back once he’d stepped in the room. Indeed, ice coated his body like another layer of skin,

jagged and translucent. Some of the ice had started to melt away, leaving underneath visible—

Manning stopped. Having looked at the man’s face, all thoughts of cause of death – of

anything – vanished in a heartbeat. It wasn’t a long heartbeat, though, it seemed that way to

Manning. In that heartbeat, he saw young boys running through streets, hiding in the mansion

when he and his dad would come to visit, training in the gymnasium of that dilapidated-looking

warehouse, secret meetings at the Academy,... he could go on forever. Manning tried to walk

through life with an impenetrable façade. He could see so much but never wanted anyone to

really see into him. It wasn’t something he did out of spite but necessity. He could never let the

Agency truly see what was inside him.

However, the man at his feet had been someone that he could always be himself around.

He had been his brother though they’d never shared the same womb. Manning instantly felt

anger and great sorrow at what had been stolen from him. A horrible, nerve-scraping moan

wanted to escape his lips like an asylum inmate slamming his fists against the door until they are

good and bloody.

Bruce.

The man on the floor was Bruce.

“Do you know him?” Detective Letts asked softly from behind.

Manning looked back. "Yes. He’s an Agent also.”

“Two dead Agents. What the hell is going on?”

“Good quest—“

The elevator on the floor suddenly dinged and through the walls, Manning saw the person

who was going to take this case out of his hands step out of the elevator. Agent Manning took

out his sketchbook and started drawing as fast as he could, needing to make quick notes.

As he drew, he told the detective, “I’m making notes that you never saw me make. I will

repay your kindness by telling you that you have a mass in your left frontal lobe. Please take

care of it.”

The detective nodded and gingerly touched his head.

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