Tiger Chronicles: Exodus
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Calvin and Hobbes. I don't own any comic strips. This is probably a good thing.
"It is more important that innocence be protected than it is that guilt be punished, for guilt and crimes are so frequent in this world that they cannot all be punished.""But if innocence itself is brought to the bar and condemned, perhaps to die, then the citizen will say, 'whether I do good or whether I do evil is immaterial, for innocence itself is no protection,' and if such an idea as that were to take hold in the mind of the citizen that would be the end of security whatsoever."
-John Adams
PROLOGUE: The Plague Spreads
...
Malefideism and its books were a plague, and those who had their wits about them identified it as such.
Retailers refused to carry it. Online shippers refused to sell it. Whether out of moral disgust or a realization that association with such a cult would end only in tears, only small niche groups could be sought out for a copy of "Get with The Program!".
A statement was released by President Obama that no amendment covered the actions suggested in the book, nor those executed in the recent months, in an attempt to dissolve any remaining delusions the law would ever be on Malefideism's side.
This did not deter some hard core groups, however…
…
Palenski had a shit eating grin, and was unapologetic for it. For times of genuine contentment, he used a small smile, the grin for when a façade was needed. It could, however, mean any number of things. Inattentiveness, trying to appease someone, trying to appear disarming, or, in this case…
Before him was a small group of the most unlikable people he'd met in his career, and he'd spoken to some assholes who wanted to make a NAMBLA convention in his city. They wore sneers of contempt as they marched into his office, and demanded- not requested- demanded they be allowed to protest at the upcoming graduation for Verdant Junior High.
Now Leonardo Palenski wore his shark's grin. Eyes narrowed to slits. Anyone who had worked with him knew that this was the kind of expression Palenski wore when he was deciding how to destroy you. The five before him had no such knowledge.
"An armed protest? Of the school that was shot up by those Highweller thugs? I normally try to keep things civil, you understand… but… please…" Palenski leaned forward. "Do you think I'm fucking stupid?"
There were several armed policemen- from the remaining group that actually had a spine after Palenski had cleaned house- in the room with him. Two of them he knew had family affected by the recent events. One other had expressed disturbing fantasies of what he would do to one of them, given the chance. The last one had dismissed them all as domestic terrorists who needed a bullet in the brain.
It felt good to have people with the right attitude in the room with him.
"I mean, seriously, have you not watched the news? We just got done dealing with an attempted nuclear attack on American soil, the first in recorded history. There are still military personnel asking me and my people questions down to what brand toilet paper we use. Before that, we dealt with this guy named Highweller. You may have heard about him, attacked an innocent girl, shot up a school, blew up a hospital… let me tell you, those were some fun months." He hoped the sarcasm dripping from his words would have some effect. No such luck.
My God, the book really does kill brain cells.
"Lemme tell you something, Putinski" a large woman, decked in gaudy jewelry that clashed with her sweatshirt and sweatpants, stepped forward, and Palenski couldn't help but recoil, the stench of her arrogance was overpowering…
…no, wait, that was body odor, garlic, and… oh sweet mother of Jesus, did no one teach these people how to wipe properly?...
"I've taught for five years in high school, and out of all the nambly-pambly nonsense about 'every kid is good at heart'…"
…Oh hell, that was what he thought it was! Was it in her pants? Was it several of them?! Would he need to have the carpets cleaned again?!
"…I whipped her good for correcting me, and what do I get? Does anyone bother to ask how I feel?!..."
They were nodding in assent with her, the black man with the shaved head, the only one who had bothered to dress up… the blonde crewcut white-t-shirt bullet headed gym teacher from hell, the bloated white-guy with xxxxl jeans… He'd give Malefideism that, it brought people from all walks together… couldn't any of them smell it?
Several of the police officers seemed to be wrinkling their nose. Okay, it wasn't just him.
"…seen it before, a dozen times, and we're seeing it again! By Malefides' law of External Parenting, we Concerned Elders demand the right to assess whether or not these deviants are fit to roam free-"
"Okay let me stop you right fucking there." Palenski shoved an index finger, pointing up, in her face. "First, you beat up a little girl for saying the sun doesn't revolve around the earth. That's both incredibly cruel and indicative that whoever hired you to teach a science class was high- God, I hope they were high. Second, for the love of… whoever you worship, woman, learn! To wipe! Your ass!"
She stumbled back, clearly shocked.
"Yes, we can all smell it. It's like someone drowned a skunk in an overflowing port-a-potty. Third, just because some lunatic who got plastic surgery to avoid being arrested for killing nearly every kid in his church wrote a… I won't call it a book… a step by step tutorial on how to kill kids and said it was okay doesn't override over two centuries of U.S. law. You come in here and ask me for permission to barge into a Junior High graduation with guns and decide who deserves to live and who doesn't? Are you all fucking brain damaged?!"
"I don't think you understand." The well-dressed man stepped forward. "We come in the name of two authorities, the authority of God almighty-"
Oh good, he was one of those pastors…
"-and the authority of James Malefides, deliverer of the word and gospel. When we came here, we did it to be polite, to let you know in advance what's going to happen. We will separate the wheat, if any, from the chaff, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it!"
"Not a damn thing?" Palenski repeated blandly. "You mean, like, let the very angry soldiers and marines in our city know about your plans?"
The pastor took a breath. "You have a daughter, right? In the second grade?" He crossed his arms in an effort to appear intimidating. "Would you like for her to see third?"
His eyes went from hateful and intimidating to cross-eyed, focused on the long barrel of metal aimed between his eyes, belonging to Palenski's personal .357.
The display of speed cowed the others, allowing the four officers to handcuff them in short order. The pastor didn't resist, his eyes focused on the business end of the gun that hadn't been there a split second ago.
"Congratulations." Palenski's voice was mechanical, the symptom of very deliberately holding back what he knew would be volcanic fury, if he let it flow unchecked. "You all just made my personal shit-list. That was a terroristic threat. The kind that sees you doing five to ten, and let me give you my personal assurance that Malefidiots do NOT do well in our prisons."
"So let me make sure that you understand. Pressing those kinds of charges against you? That's me being nice. That is mercy you will not see again. With all the shit that has happened, no one in this city would blink if I were to ask these fine gentlemen to blow your heads off. If you threaten anyone else, I will kill you personally… no, wait, you know what? You threaten anyone else, and I'll lock you in a room with Officer Brandon and a pair of rusty garden shears. From what I'm given to understand, after his son got hurt in the Verdant shooting, he has some wonderful ideas on how to use them."
They were dragged, rather subdued, from his office, and Palenski felt proud of himself…
Then he looked down where the woman had been standing…
…and sighed.
He hit his intercom button. "Ms. Carol, call the carpet cleaners." He said with a groan.
"…and tell Officer Brandon to forward the bill for dry cleaning to me."
…
Mistakes were made during parenting. It happened. You corrected them, and you moved on.
One of those mistakes, Paul Creekson learned, was punishing your child for something they didn't do. You made it up to them. You apologized. You promised to do better, then you moved on.
And that might have worked, six years ago.
Now?
"Son, please, let's just talk-"
"FUCK YOU!"
They were cold, cruel, hateful words. He looked to his wife, Natalie, and she grimaced.
Who could blame him? Six years blamed for a theft from the church that never happened. Six years of ostracism and constant punishment. A few months ago, it had been revealed that their son Kyle had not stolen an envelope full of donations when he was six.
That was the time to apologize, he knew now. They had not.
The church, his teachers, and his own parents had all agreed that this was a test from God and he would be stronger for it, and he needed to keep doing some of the things assigned to him as punishment- mowing lawns for elderly members of the church, doing housework for others, and not using computers or phones to complain- so that he would realize that God had a purpose for his pain.
They were going to have him forgive everyone, last Sunday, when one of the elderly women he had been made to work for, a cruel, snarly woman, called him "Thief" one last time as a cruel joke…
…and he snapped.
Years of paddling, whippings, slappings, curses, "lost" homework and tests all came crashing down in a display of adolescent wrath. One of the church members, a beefy man who had punched him to the floor on several occasions to punish him for his supposed theft, tried to block the way out of the church to get him to calm down.
That earned him a fractured wrist, the consequence of trying to block the path of a berserk child wielding a chair.
He had marched home on the road, and they had driven alongside him, begging him to at least let them drive him home, but he had staggered, stumbled, and marched on his own power to their front door, furiously shaking them off when they tried to hug him and retreating to his room.
"Honey, please, we know you're upset, but Mrs. Jennings was just kidding!" His mother pleaded.
Silence.
The door ripped open.
He was 4 feet, 4 inches, weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, and pale. His hair was a crewcut, they hadn't let him have anything else since he was accused. He normally didn't look imposing at all.
But six years of punishment had killed any light in those green eyes, and what glared at them were serpent's eyes, full of primal spite.
"Kidding?" He asked, voice suddenly calm. "She was kidding?"
He suddenly ripped off his Sunday shirt, heedless of the damage he did, turned…
Paul recoiled.
"Do you see those scars? Do you see those scars? The ones below the ones you made when you whipped me with a belt buckle? She used a weedwhacker on my back two years ago."
He didn't need to see the raised white lines and discolored scars, he couldn't look at them- each of them told a story of how he had failed him, miserably…
"Was she kidding then? Huh? Was she kidding then? Oh, how about the sermons every other week about how the thief comes to kill, steal, and destroy and the pastor would glare at me? Was he kidding?"
"Son, just calm down-"
"Or how about Mr. Mallory, the guy who liked to fucking punch me in the face every Sunday? Was he kidding? Because you laughed when he knocked out a tooth. Was that fucking funny, mom?"
Behind his form, shaking with rage, Paul looked into his room. It was a barren cell, no books beyond the absolute essentials for school, no toys, no computer, just a desk, bed, and closet.
Even if he had stolen the money, even if they hadn't found it later, untouched, beneath the podium, he didn't deserve anything he had gotten.
"Son, listen-"
"I'm not your son, remember?" He snapped.
He remembered. He remembered those awful words, shouted in front of the congregation that first day…
You're not a son, you're a curse. Once you turn eighteen, you're someone else's problem.
He slammed the door in their faces.
It was evident, then, that this was not going to be one of those problems that could be resolved by the end of the day.
…
Hate.
Hate was all he had left.
Gone were the days where he could see a light at the end of the tunnel. Even after they had found proof of his innocence, their reaction was to make him keep working for those bitches and make him forgive everyone because "Jesus".
They'd taken hope, joy, and peace from him, bit by bit, blow by blow, and now all he had left was Hate.
…but…
Hate had not abandoned him when his teachers did. Hate had not renounced him like his parents had. Hate had not condemned him as unredeemable as his pastor had.
Why should he abandon Hate, when it had been the only loyal friend he had ever known?
Kyle sat in the darkness of his room on his bed. Any minute now, his parents would want him to go over to Mrs. Jennings house and mow her lawn, despite her 'forgetting' that he was innocent, despite her cruelty and abuse over the years…
Because it was what Jesus would do.
Well, mom and dad in name only, Jesus also, according to your bible, which you have literally beaten me over the head with, also gets to damn everyone who doesn't apologize to burning forever. While we're on the subject of forgiveness, you get angry and stay angry for six years, then expect forgiveness while they still fucking punished him for something he didn't do?
Fuck that. Fuck them.
And then it struck him, with all the mercy of Mr. Mallory's repeated kicks to his ribs when he was nine…
He hated everyone he knew. There was no other word for it. He didn't want fake apologies, he didn't want reconciliation, he wanted everybody dead.
He made sure, making a list mentally. His teachers? Check. Classmates? Every last one of them, cruel and sadistic. His parents? Double check. Mrs. Jennings? Slow and painful. Mr. Mallory? Extra slow, extra painful. Pastor? Crucifix through chest.
He went through a list of every single human being he'd interacted with since that day when he was six, and realized there was not one single person he didn't have multiple reasons to hate with venomous passion.
He tried to think about his parents dying, like Batman, shot in an alley…
…his first impulse would be to thank the mugger.
Kyle was aware he had been kept out of the loop. All he knew was how much people hated him. His teachers had eschewed teaching him anything useful. He wasn't allowed to know about current events. And yet, still, he instinctively knew that when you were at the point where you were willing to thank the person who shot your parents…
…there was something very wrong with you.
And, now that he reflected on it… that was fine with him.
He had been good. Where had that gotten him?
…
"There once was a asshole named Joe,
He was stupid, selfish and slow.
I'm happy to report that his lifetime was cut short,
And now Satan has a brand new Ho!"
"Joe Caldern had a boy, Moe, his son.
He asked his dad to let him shoot me for fun.
He was an awful guy, so I helped him die
By blowing his knee out with a gun!"
"There once was a douche named Highweller,
Who was a pretty nasty old feller,
He was mean, he was crass, so God fried his ass,
And now he's sick and dying like Old Yeller!"
"There once was a fuck named Marrin,
Who made racism a daily errand,
But his political clout got his fat ass knocked out,
He's dead, gone, and nobody's carin'!"
"There was an mean bitch named Kalen
Who had an incurable fetish for failin'
By her I was smacked, now I've heard that she's cracked,
And alas, there's no cure for her ailin'!"
"There was an concerned elder named Pete,
Whose decisions you should not dare repeat,
This assassin schmuck got his ass creamed by a truck,
Instant karma, folks! Ain't it just neat?"
"There was an old fart, Charles Vance,
Who bought into the Malefidiot Chants,
But his plans were too crass, Jason Fox killed his ass,
Frankly, I don't think he stood a chance!"
"There was a small city called Highground,
The most kid-hating city around,
Its citizens were dim, I killed lots of them,
And now it's a looter's playground!"
"Samuel Orwells had a temperament quirk,
He kicked my girlfriend, Susie, what a jerk!
Then he fell from the sky, I guess he tried to fly,
Alas, his methods don't seem to work!"
"Now you may not like what I wrote,
And think that it's improper to gloat,
But if you'd seen what I'd seen, you'd feel rather mean,
And then we'd both be in the same boat!"
-Calvin Halgin's "tribute", posted on his blog.
…
It was not a good day to be a R.A.W. agent, Barry silently concluded.
At the moment, wherever they were, he was safe… or as safe as you could get in a massively armed cult dedicated to torturing children to death.
His security clearance was enough to know that one of their compounds had been raided. Many of their agents had been killed, some captured, children and teens had been rescued, bodies had been recovered, and people world-wide were getting pissed.
What footage he was allowed was… unsettling. Yet, alone in his room-cell, he watched it again.
At first, the Marines infiltrating the building had been precise, calm, efficient, killing with grim precision that demanded a grudging respect. There was also another solo agent, clad in red and black, who (and he required two rewinds to verify this) moonwalked as he shot up agents and breakdanced while chucking grenades, his erratic movements confounding their guards. He was shot multiple times, but that seemed to be an inconvenience at worst.
Then they had found the kids. The torture devices. The dead bodies meant for cremation.
What followed was a massacre. Technicians, food workers, R.A.W. elites… gunned down, set on fire, carved up with knives. The mercenary who had been treating his actions like a game had talked to one dying child for a few minutes, took a second to shut his eyes, then proceeded to effortlessly and efficiently kill twenty guards and spent the better part of an hour using their own implements on one of their best breakers…
…he had seen some awful ways to die. There was no audio that he was cleared to hear, but it was obvious Breaker Cash died screaming in agony. Marines surrounded the mercenary working Cash over, but didn't interfere.
Then the red-and-black monster had thrown Cash to the ground, now unrecognizable, took a piece of paper, and wrote on it in Cash's blood before bringing it up to one of the cameras…
I WILL FUCKING KILL ALL OF YOU.
The mercenary's name was Deadpool, and the intel on him described his normal behavior as "violently erratic". It was noted that when this erratic and whimsical behavior towards his targets ceased was when Deadpool was truly dangerous- all of the energy spent towards making the killing amusing or performing elaborate pranks during an act of espionage or sabotage was redirected into raw, focused, murderous rage, as Breaker Cash had discovered during the last agonizing hour of his life.
The rest of the footage showed him, without any apparent trace of mirth, helping carrying the bodies of the teens and children outside.
Another compound down. That meant the loss of training dummies, ransom money, torture research, personnel, sensitive information, and more fuel to the hatred almost every single country now felt for them.
On a more personal level, one of the marines involved in the raid had looked frighteningly familiar.
It took some cajoling of the techs, but facial recognition software confirmed Barry's worst fears…
Curtis had become a Marine.
A Marine, the footage attested, capable of coldly mowing down trained guards with brutal efficiency, and no qualms whatsoever about breaking one very unfortunate technician's leg in several places before dragging her outside, then returning to watch Deadpool torture Cash to death with a posture that indicated both amusement and learning observation.
There were multiple laws against torture, Barry knew this. He also knew that with each horror story released about the Grindstone camps and the R.A.W. compounds, the more the public would bay for their blood, and no one was going to shed tears for any R.A.W. agent who died slower than the rest…
An alarm on his R.A.W. issued phone beeped. It was time for another conference.
He made his way to what he deemed the "White Room", past armories, medical centers, laboratories.
The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss as he approached. No one inside looked particularly happy, not even Malefides, and he had a pretty good idea as to why.
In addition to the loss of another compound, apparently James Malefides' daughter didn't have the decency to stay dead. That, or her now deceased mother was a lousy shot. Either way, she had spilled the beans as to James Malefides being Matthew Wellfields, ex-pastor of the first church of child abuse, and while quick acting had preserved, if not strengthened, the loyalty of Malefidians, it had pissed off everyone else to new magnitudes.
He didn't dare make a quip as he took his seat. Grant, looking somber, spoke first.
"I don't need to tell you all that things are grim." He said quietly. "We are, suffice to say, not going to win any popularity contests. Intel says that multiple agencies are beginning to cooperate to find and take out our compounds and camps. The media attention is going to mean standard collection of training dummies and ransom revenue isn't going to be as viable as it once was. We've had to sever our phone lines we once used for confirmation of pick-ups, and our Terra Firma bases are on high-alert with orders to self-destruct in case of doubt. The High Ups say to remain calm, but I don't think I need to explain to anyone here that we are all expendable compared to R.A.W.'s long-term survival."
"Malefideism," he continued, nodding at Malefides, "is going to be our best bet for recruitment for the foreseeable future. Sad to say, that means we will be taking anything we can get. The majority of Malefidians have very little to no combat experience, meaning we will need to focus on getting them combat ready. Make no mistake- the metahumans who have codes against killing will eschew those rules if it comes to open war. We already know of one metahuman in Newden who takes pleasure in killing anyone who gets in his way."
Calvin Halgins. There was a problem.
A moratorium had come down from High Father himself, if an exasperated Grant was to be believed, that his family and friends were not to be targeted, lest they die and the reality-warping adolescent went thermonuclear- which, Barry noted with a shudder, was a distinct possibility.
He had a rough draft of a plan- one bound to be extremely unpopular- that would require R.A.W. going dark for a while. Lull him into a false sense of security. Then strike when he least expected it- sniper, most likely.
Unless he was one of those types that wouldn't stop until he saw every one of them dead. That… could pose a problem.
"…good news is that Malefideism is still spreading world-wide. Parents marginally, but we're seeing more membership among the pedophile and child assaulters." Grant summarized. "Retrieval of new agents is going to have to be handled with utmost care. As recent events have shown us, even the best laid plans fall apart when physics-denying freaks come into the equation."
Barry suppressed a groan. It was bad enough a sign that R.A.W. had deemed his failure a thing beyond his control- though he appreciated the lack of a painful death.
At the beginning, he had expected to be laughed out the room, if not beaten within an inch of his life, when he suggested his desperate plan of nuking Newden. Yet lo and behold, the higher ups had decided the situation was desperate enough to warrant throwing subtlety out the window and launching an op to irradiate Newden for the better part of the next few decades.
He now sympathized with every cartoon villain whose meticulous plans were undone by some freak accident. He wanted to wail as they had, cursing the unlucky stars that deemed them a loser once again, calling physics on their bullshit, blatantly cheating a hard-working sociopath out of their moment of triumph.
And then it struck him that, in fact, that might be exactly what was happening.
Malefides was R.A.W. personified, a manifestation of sadism, deceit, and ego that Barry had come to grant a sort of grudging respect. That, and the fact Jason Fox's barrage had only seemed to mildly annoy him.
He hadn't spoken it aloud, for fear that Malefides might flat out confirm it, and wreak havoc with the religious zealots who interpreted their religious texts as manuals on how to torture children…
He'd been told, in those mind-breaking boring Sunday school lessons, that the anti-Christ, the bad-guy of all bad-guys, was coming soon.
He just never expected to have coffee with him.
"Neoidentified, I don't suppose you have any genius plans as to how to fix this predicament?" Grant asked sarcastically.
Barry drew in a breath, prepared to say "No, sir"…
…and then Malefides met his eyes with a gimlet glare…
There was a pop in the back of his mind, a sudden rush of inspiration…
"Nothing we do at this moment is going to gain us any amount of effective sympathy among those who aren't already ripe for induction. The fall of Facility #22 means that the media has more martyrs to mourn, and that the six people responsible for the first Facility destruction are going to be viewed as prophets, saints, or worse." Barry thinned his lips grimly. "We're frankly lucky Calvin hasn't seemed to have come public with his ability to distort causality, otherwise we'd be looking at a new religion."
There were grimaces around the table. The knowledge kept flowing, and he doubted he could stop talking even if he wanted to…
"As of now, we don't fully understand how his powers work, or what, if any his vulnerabilities are. If we are ever to mount an effective defense or offense against him, we must, as we have before with many metahumans, determine how his powers work, and if he may be deprived of them. The good news is that as of late…" and he shifted uncomfortably, here… "…our recent activities have been very out in the open. Nuclear attack, an armed assault on Jason Fox's home, a facility dedicated to torture. Our track record with the mentality of the people at large is that we are not expected to be subtle."
"You mean that we should just wait and watch?" Malefides asked incredulously, but it was as if he knew the question had to be asked, and he was prompting him, prodding him to head off concerns…
Paying the feeling no mind, he continued. "No. I doubt he's dumb enough to reveal more of his hand than he absolutely has to. The bad news is, not everyone who subscribes to Malefideism is fit to be a R.A.W. agent. The good news is, they can serve us in conducting a battery of tests."
"Ladies, gentlemen, everyone has breaking points. Joints that can be broken. Nerve clusters that can be used to cripple. Organs that, when ruptured, mean crippling or death. As we all know, three or four of these breaking points is usually enough to break one of our training dummies." Barry smiled as the plan flowed into place, placidly accepting Malefides approving nod and smile. "I say we learn Calvin's… and then strike them all at once."
…
MAY
Summer.
What a joke.
What a fucking joke.
Reports were spreading about Malefideism continuing to spread across the country in small clusters, groups of child haters and abusive parents coming together to worship Highweller and Malefides as saints of a new world order.
The Marines had captured a R.A.W. facility, rescuing hundreds of children, but confirming hundreds more had died horrifically. He had been able to watch a fourth of the video before he was forced to click it off, and, with as much dignity as he could muster, drag himself to the toilet to sob and throw up.
Hobbes had held him in his bed until he managed to sleep, but even the embrace of a massive, warm feline did little to soothe him.
There were still children out there, imprisoned in these death factories.
Being tortured, being told no one loved them, and killed when they couldn't feel any more pain…
…and yet the Malefidiots spread, looking at a tape that an atheist could use as cold evidence there was no loving god, and saying "No, you got it all wrong. It's the R.A.W. members who are the victims!"
After reading ten or so posts cheering on the "righteous warriors of R.A.W." or Malefidiots who had gone out and assaulted kids- one nightmarish report a gang of child-haters had barged into a fast-food restaurant and… deep-fried a 5 year old boy to death, then danced and sang in celebration until the cops arrived-
His method for dealing with any Malefideism advocate became simple- kill them.
If R.A.W. and Malefides were going to paint him as some sort of demonic hellspawn, then God help him, he would play the role well.
But that…
…that was not now.
Now he travelled to Verdant Junior High for the graduation ceremony.
Around his arm he wore a green armband, as would be every other student. Tribute to the fallen.
He didn't want to go. The people deserved to mourn their lost loved ones in peace, they didn't need a celebrity hogging the spotlight, especially one that didn't have the answers they needed…
But today was a day of solidarity, for them.
And he would not hide in the shadows.
The auditorium was set up like some sort of funeral service- candles illuminated photos of the deceased, showing smiling faces of students, teachers hard at work…
Gone.
This would be it, he decided. When, later down the road, the world looked at the smoldering pile of Malefidiots and R.A.W. agents, if they had the gall to ask why…
This is what he'd point to.
Principal Robert Spittle took the stage. He looked old, far older than he had at the beginning of the school year. There was no grumpy grimace, no piercing stare, just the weight of everything and anything crashing down on him with all the pressure of a cold and uncaring ocean.
"…I want to tell you all that you have bright, shining futures. That you're going into a brand-new world, and your education will take you to new wonders." Spittle said softly into the hush of the auditorium. "I want to tell you that if you just persevere, you will make it in this world. I want to tell you…"
He choked.
The man Calvin knew to be made of iron choked.
Spittle shook, elderly body convulsing with sorrow, then he found his iron, and took a breath. "I… want to tell you… everything will be okay."
A pause, that could have been seconds or an eternity.
"But I can't." Spittle said sadly.
"Many times, when asked how the world has supposedly changed, it has been said "nothing's changed. You've just been forced to pay attention." This is not the case here. The world has changed. The rules of the game have changed. There are monsters out there, unworthy of being called men and women, who care not one iota if you have been obedient or not."
Spittle drank shakily from a glass of water. "19 students and teachers were taken from us in an act of pointless, petty spite, the masterpiece of a man the likes of which fortunately befoul our world only so very often. They were artists, intellectuals, educators. People with hopes and dreams, killed solely because weak-minded monsters decided that shooting them was okay, because a loud-mouthed monster said so."
"Poison, in the form of a manual on torture, has been spread through our nation, encouraging monsters and those on the verge of becoming such to acts of such viciousness and wanton evil I cannot mention them here. This horrific book of evil acts was written, as many of you now know, by a man who led an armed assault on a friend of our very own Calvin Halgins, for having the audacity to defend himself against madmen time and again."
"Very recently, our city was threatened with absolute annihilation, the desperate actions of an entire organization of monsters whose depravity and cruelty has no bottom limit. There is no point in trying to avoid the issue; to do so is to engage in fatal self-delusion."
Spittle looked out on them all, lip quavering.
"I can offer no advice against these horrors. Nothing I have learned or seen in my years has given me any wisdom applicable to an enemy this savage and determined to destroy all that is good."
"All I can say… all I can ask… is that you please, please… be very careful."
And it was a sad, final pleading, the kind of begging made from a man of iron who was at his breaking point, that came from Spittle. Too many funerals. Too many grief-stricken parents, begging to have old papers, art projects, anything they could have to cling to memories of dead children. Having to interview new applicants for positions caked in blood.
One day, Calvin vowed, it would end.
He would drag the head or the heads of R.A.W. into the streets of Newden, cameras watching, execute them one by one, and proclaim that THEY ARE DEAD.
No more sadists torturing children.
No more monsters writing Satan's parenting guide.
No more dead teachers. No more dead students.
…
Malefides slept fitfully.
The power to warp matter, ignore pain and death, to read minds from miles away, and yet all the might of hell could not produce an opiate strong enough to get him sleep.
The voice of his old god has not left his dreams, when he does sleep. It's still there.
But now…
Where there was disappointment, sadness, and regret…
There was now WRATH.
Unmistakably, with no room for misinterpretation, Malefides knew that there was indeed a Guy in The Sky, and He out and out hated him.
I will break you. I will crush you. I will make you suffer a thousand times what you have brought on my little ones. I will scourge you without mercy until you forget what not being in agony is like.
Children in cells, when he ventured near them, whimpered about pain, hunger, all the things R.A.W. used to destroy them, mind, body, and soul… but occasionally they'd whine about the dark.
What a joke, Malefides says as he mind-nudges the quartermaster into giving him military grade sleep-aids and the strongest coffee he can provide.
People who're afraid of the dark have never seen what the light can do.
He made his way to the conference room, as per the sudden mandate to join for an emergency meeting.
"Now what?" he asked brusquely. It had been one catastrophe after another, and the demonic power that filled him churned with frustration. There was an upper limit to how many complications could occur in the long term plan before even all the power of Hell was unable to rectify the situation.
"We've received word of a development. Not metahuman, at least, not yet." Barry explained. "Apparently, you're still gaining followers."
He glanced at the dossiers on the table. Apparently, Get With The Program was still in demand.
Weak-minded parents seduced by the idea of total obedience, child-haters who wanted new tips for ruining children's lives, those who had no children of their own but wanted to "correct" the parenting "mistakes" of others…
A mother and father allying with a school faculty to frame their own son for rape for the purpose of what amounted to a public service announcement. A grandmother rallying others to attack her granddaughter while she was home alone, take nude photos of her, and then get her arrested for sexting. Judges taking up Highweller's mantle. A girl publicly humiliated by her parents and a principal for sport…
This was good news.
…
They came from all walks of life. Poor, middle class, rich, intellectual, slacker, artist…
Nearly all of them had one thing in common: One way or another, those who treated Get With The Program! as a new bible- Malefidians- had made their lives unbearable through campaigns of lies, assault, or both.
The common goal, spread in secret by word of mouth and on tight-security websites, was not a protest. If people viewed it as such, that was a happy coincidence.
The main reason, for those who had been selected for "External Parenting" or had parents dim enough to believe the lies, was escape.
This marked the event that would be come to known as the "New Exodus".