Lawndale is your average American suburb, just far enough from the city for it to be a pain to go there for anything but a special night out. Never mind which city, that's complicated. Everything you need you can find, from groceries to grunge clubs.
That's where I find myself tonight. The Zōn, a filthy little hole where the alternative element gets together to feel like they're not part of the same suburban landscape as the soccer moms and businessmen. It's actually not such a bad place. Sometimes the music's passable and, more importantly, it's one of the few places that will serve a minor.
I lean against the wall near the entrance, probably looking like some kid too nervous to get out on the floor and move. Not completely untrue, I'm not exactly a fan of slamming against other people when I don't have to, but that's not why I'm playing the wallflower tonight. I'm looking for something. That's right something, not someone.
You see, Lawndale's not just your average American suburb. It's a hub, a nexus for all the weird that stays just out of sight. What I'm looking for tonight isn't anything major. If it were, Dad would be here looking over my shoulder. No, tonight I'm working pest control. The owner of the Zōn says he's seen a gremlin running around. Gremlins are the little things that form out of the energy that seeps through the cracks in the world. They aren't smart and they can't usually do any real harm, but they can get people asking questions, which is bad.
There's a loud pop from one of the speakers next to the stage and a small plume of smoke starts to rise from it. A six armed electric blue squirrel crawls through the top of the speaker and peers around with beady black eyes. Thankfully, certain parties have seen fit to erect a kind of barrier around Lawndale that helps normal people rationalize the supernatural.
One of the band's guitarists, a pudgy twenty something woman with more tattoos than most carnies and bright purple hair, screams, "Rat!" and swings her instrument at the little blue rodent. The gremlin dances out of the way and her guitar meets the speaker with a decidedly unpleasant sound, pieces of both bouncing off into the crowd.
I don't have time to enjoy watching the aftermath, as I weave through the crowd toward my quickly moving target. Being 5' 2" has its disadvantages, but the ability to slip through crowds isn't one of them. As I go, I start to pump Juice into my gloves.
Juice is what powers the tools we use to do our job. People call it lots of stuff, Energy, Chi, Mana, Dad calls it Soul Juice. No one ever accused him of being a poet. Whatever you want to call it, it's life energy. Theoretically, anyone can learn to use it, but it's really only practical for a few of us. Once these gloves are full of it they'll act like a magnet and draw the pest in and keep it from phasing through anything else.
The gremlin darts into the restroom, because of course it does. The Zōn's restrooms are one of the most disgusting places I have ever seen, and I've climbed through actual sewers. At least it's the ladies room this time. I burst through the door, only to find the thing floating head over tail three feet in the air. Behind it stands a girl a few inches taller than me wearing all black with long hair that's a just slightly unnatural shade of red, one strand falling across the center of her face.
Scarlett Stirling. A witch. Witches are powerful; they run on Juice same as the rest of us (they prefer the term Mana), only they can pull it from anywhere, not just themselves. They don't need any tools to use it either. Life's just unfair like that. Generally speaking, I don't have a problem with witches. They're one of the more manageable supernatural types. Sure, they'll throw a curse around occasionally, but in my experience the recipient usually has it coming, and Ms. Defoe keeps them mostly in line at school.
That said, I am dealing with someone who could levitate me into one of the Zōn's toilets. Best to be polite. I close the door and look at her face instead of the gremlin rotating in midair between us. "Hi Scarlett, here for the band? I think they're having some technical issues."
She laughs and smiles. Not smirks or grins, but genuinely smiles. Scarlett's attitude doesn't exactly match her choice in clothes. "No, I'm just here to hang out, some of my friends were supposed to show, but they couldn't make it. What about you, here with Jane?"
"No, work. Speaking of which, are we going to talk about the blue squirrel floating in the middle of the room?" Sometimes I wonder if it's this whole town that's crazy or if I just went nuts a long time ago.
She looks at the gremlin appraisingly, raising it another foot in the air with a wave of her hand. "Kind of cute, isn't he?"
"It's a living manifestation of energy that leaked through the barriers between worlds," I reply flatly.
She smiles and reaches out to scratch the things belly. "He's a cute one though."
"You know it's my job to clean this kind of thing up."
Her smile drops and her eyes flash. "You mean kill them."
Witches have a thing about life, it's part of their belief system. Still, some take it more seriously than others. Unfortunately for me, Scarlett's one of the latter, as evidenced by the Ankh now levitating an inch off of her chest and the way her hair is starting to blow around without any wind.
Okay, different tact. "If I let that thing go, it's going to cause a lot of havoc and eventually get people asking questions. You know that's bad. Defoe would tell you the same thing."
Scarlett takes a deep breath and the Ankh slowly drops back against her chest. She looks down with a thoughtful expression. After a moment, she smiles and claps her hands together excitedly, the hand movement sending the gremlin flying toward the wall. With a yelp, she catches it before it hits and brings it back between us. After making sure it's okay, she looks up at me and asks, "What if I made sure he doesn't cause trouble?"
"What?"
"I could keep him with me and watch him."
I can feel my left eyebrow creep up in disbelief. "You want to keep a dangerous physical manifestation of interdimensional energy as a pet?"
"More like a familiar. You know I can handle it," she says confidently.
I sigh. Truth is, she probably can. Like I said, witches are strong. Scarlett isn't just some dabbler either, she's one of Defoe's favorites. Unfortunately for her, and very possibly me, that's not the point. "This isn't a negotiation." I raise my right hand and will the glove to work. The gremlin flies to my hand, Scarlett wincing as it's torn from her magic. Trying to soften the blow, I add, "Look, I'm sorry. Like I said before, this is work." I back away slowly, keeping an eye on her and bracing myself for whatever she might throw at me.
As my back pushes open the swinging door, she cries out, "Wait! I'll… I'll owe you a favor."
At first I flinch at the sound, half expecting a sphere of force to be hurled at me. Then what she said registers. Things like favors, promises, and contracts mean something in the supernatural world, at least in Lawndale. They're binding. Dad says it has something to do with the people who built the town, but I've never been filled in on the details. What's important is that it means Scarlett will have to do something for me, cast a spell for instance, no questions asked. That's worth having to deal with Dad.
I let the tension drain from my muscles and walk over to Scarlett, holding out the little blue menace. "Don't make me regret this."
She quickly grabs it and starts fussing over it, smoothing its fur and scratching its belly. Without looking up, she says, "I won't. Thanks, Daria."
I nod and say, "Uh-huh," before ducking out of the restroom. The band has started again, someone having lent the purple haired girl a new guitar. They sound significantly better with only one speaker to blare out of. I make my way over to the bar and have a seat, deciding I need a drink before I go home and Dad chews me out.
The bartender, Mike, finishes up with a couple of other patrons and walks down the bar to where I'm sitting. "If it isn't the young Ms. Morgendorffer. You take care of that little gremlin?" Mike's in his late thirties, with black hair starting to grey. He owns the place, says he tends bar because he likes it, although I suspect he has other reasons. He's also a friend of Dad's and one of the few humans who know what's actually going on in Lawndale.
"More or less."
"Hmm…" he says, searching my face.
"Look can I just get something to drink?"
He shrugs and asks, "What'll it be?"
"I don't suppose you'll give me some Jack?"
"You know the rule, nothing hard on a school night."
"It really is admirable how responsible you are in your service of alcohol to minors," I say as sarcastically as I can. "Just give me a bottle of Pat's." Pat's is a local beer. Well, relatively. It's brewed by the spirit of St. Patrick's Day and shipped out of the back of a Chinese food restaurant.
He grabs a bottle, pops the cap, and sets it down in front of me. "I'm surprised you still drink this after—"
"One more word and you can clean up your next supernatural problem yourself." Mike just grins and shakes his head as he walks down the bar to another customer. I swear you date one Holiday for a few weeks and no one ever lets you forget it. I take a long pull of the beer and set it back down on the counter. Pat may be an idiot, but he makes damn good beer.
It's a long walk back from the Zōn to my house, but at least it's nice out. The late summer heat has started to let up and has dropped even further since the sun set, something that I appreciate given the fact that I prefer to wear a jacket year round.
As I walk past a children's playground, I hear something running up behind me. Reflexively, I spin to face the sound. Barreling towards me is what looks like a small green bull with several extra legs and an extra horn on either side of its head. Small being a relative term; it's roughly the size of a St. Bernard. I try to sidestep out of the way, but I'm too late and one of its horns tears through my jacket and some of the skin above my ribs. Remember how I said gremlins were usually harmless? This one is apparently one of the exceptions.
It continues past me and I try to ignore the pain and figure out what to do. As it turns for another charge I drop my baton out of its sheath in my sleeve and start pumping Juice into it. My baton is made of wood, but once it's full of Juice it will hit like a stun baton. Unfortunately it won't be ready before the gremlin charges me again. Knowing what's coming this time, I strafe around it as it gets close. Fortunately, my hunch is right it can't turn well and misses me by a couple of feet.
The gremlin gives a frustrated barking roar and turns for another run. My baton's ready now, crackling with energy as the beast runs towards me. I just have to dodge a little closer than last time and crack it on the head. I strafe like before and land a solid blow on its head, but at the same time it swings its head, driving the side of its horns into me. The horns slam into my stomach and lower ribs, sending me flying to the ground.
As I look up I see the gremlin struggling to its feet. I try to get up as well, but I'm too slow. It turns, angling itself to trample me. Just as it's about to charge, a large black pickup veers off the road and slams into it. The gremlin flies several yards and slams into a bench next to the playground. It dissolves into small lights which disappear into the night as the energy that had made it up dissipates.
A man jumps out of the truck and starts running towards me. I can't see any details through the glare of the headlights, but I know who it is. Grabbing my baton and pulling myself up from the ground, I call out, "Hey, Dad."
He hurries to my side, slipping his arm under mine and helping me toward the truck. "Are you alright Kiddo?"
"I'll live," I say, trying not to wince as he helps me up the step to the passenger seat. Dad has one of those big trucks you pretty much need a ladder to get into, made to drive on any terrain short of water. The words Morgendorffer Consulting printed in bold white letters along the side look ridiculously out of place, unless you know what he consults on.
"What'd you do wrong?" His voice isn't hard or critical, still showing the same concern as before. He's not being harsh, just realistic. In this business we can't afford to make mistakes, but when we inevitably do we have to recognize them so we don't make them again.
I lean back in the seat and close my eyes, thinking. "I was over confident and underestimated my opponent. I assumed I knew the enemy's reach and failed to recognize it could use its horns that way simply because it hadn't previously."
Dad walks around and climbs in the driver's side. In a slightly chastising tone, he says, "You overconfidence also let you miss a clearly advantageous environment." He points to the playground equipment, which, in hindsight, I realize I could have used to get out of the gremlin's reach altogether. "You have to use every advantage available to you Daria, we're only human and they're not."
"Yes sir."
"Are you too banged up to do a little more work?"
I tenderly poke at my ribs. Nothing seems broken, but there's a damp spot on my shirt where I'm still bleeding a bit from that first near gore. "I'm a little sore and I need a bandage for a scrape, but I think I'm okay. Why? What else do we have to do tonight? I thought it was just the gremlin at the Zōn."
Dad backed out of the park and started driving down the road, eyes glancing along the sidewalks. "Something's going on tonight, Kiddo. Gremlins are popping up all over the place."
"What does it mean?"
"I have a few Ideas, but…" He shook his head. "I don't know Kiddo. For now we just need to do our job."
How ya Doin'?
So this is something new for me. A kind of noirish urban fantasy thing. The idea has been kicking around in my head for a while now, and I finally got it down on paper around Halloween. I think it came out alright.
I am, however, quite curious what you think. If you're so inclined, please let me know. Many thanks for reading, lurkers included.