Fillmore!

Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends

Act 7: Deimus

Philosopher Kahlil Gibran wrote "Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."


The week rolled by and in those seven days, Los Duendos achieved what they had refrained from doing in the past months. Using all the resources available to them, Samael and his followers brought a reign of terror down upon the halls of X Middle School. Students of all ages were terrified to venture into the halls. Money exchanged hands faster than words could be said as kids bargained, bought and bribed for protection from anyone in a position to offer it.

The nurse was swamped with students – male and female alike – limping to her office sporting bruises and cuts, sometimes still shaking with fear from their assault. Folsom was lviid and at her whit's end – alternately fielding calls from concerned or irate parents and berating the Safety Patrol for their ineptness.

The foundation Isis and Kapua had built initially swelled with an influx of students seeking refuge from Los Duendos. But even with the help of a now enlightened Safety Patrol, the Crime Duo were hard pushed to provide the protection their people so desperately needed. Lack of resources and the student's fear of being targeted for supporting the Tricksters' meant that the wealth of followers both Ingrid and Fillmore relied upon to undermine Los Duendos' operations, crumbled.

It looked as though the Tricksters were about to lose the war. And it was clear for all to see, that without two Crime Lords to split the balance of power, the Safety Patrol would be facing an enemy far stronger than they were.

And yet despite all this, the real worry for the Senior Patrollers, was Ingrid.


Swearing, Ingrid tried to forcefully stop her hand from trembling as she reached for her locker. Her fingers touched the metal and she pried the door open only to slam it shut again with a start as a cough sounded from behind her. Whirling, both hands raised to fight off an attacker, Ingrid came face to face with a rather shocked six former, who, with chin trembling, hurried away down the hall.

With a sigh, Ingrid turned back to her locker; acutely aware that the number of people in the hallway was lessening, and that very soon every student would be in lessons. Hurriedly, the raven-haired genius grabbed her books and slammed her locker shut, not even bothering to put the books in her bag for fear of being caught in the hallways alone.

Books clutched tightly to her chest, Ingrid flew down the corridor towards her classroom, as she rounded the corner her ears heard the sound of crying and a voice calling for help.

Halting, Ingrid glanced into the classroom to her left. The door was open and she could clearly see a girl, a seventh grader from the textbook clutched in one hand, cowering away from a brutish looking boy. Seeing the girl's eyes dart to the right, the boy turned his head, grinning when he saw the Orange sash Ingrid wore. Ingrid gasped when she saw his face. Same cruel, dark eyes, same tanned face. With a malicious smirk, he raised one hand in a mock salute.

"Samael says hello." He told her, his voice as cruelly rich as it was when she was pinned beneath the fallen lockers. The girl reached out a hand – a silent plea for help – but Ingrid shook her head, looking away from the scene. With a choked sob, Ingrid Third did what she had always sworn never to do. She ran.


Fillmore flung his satchel down onto his desk at HQ and glanced over at Ingrid's desk with a frown. His partner had not shown for class earlier and his inquiries with the nurse and at Folsom's office had produce nothing but blank stares and negative responses. Now, it transpired, that she had not been seen either. Worried, Fillmore left his bag where it sat and headed for the door, brushing off a question from a younger patroller with a shake of his head. He was just about to leave when the door burst open and a girl, pale blonde hair streaming behind her, burst into the room. He vaguely recognised her as a girl from his history class and was surprised not only to see venom in her eyes but also to see it directed at him. His eyes quickly took in her state of disarray and the handprint bruise beginning to form on her wrist.

"You're partner's disgusting." She hissed at him, poison and resentment dripping from every word. "She saw what that boy was doing and she just left me!"

"What boy? What was he doing?" The question came from Karen, now quickly approaching from the side. Fillmore was glad for the help as the slur against Third had made him want to yell at the girl rather than take her statement.

The blonde turned to Karen, fury still evident in her features but beginning to give way to shock and fear. "One of Los Duendos," she said her voice shaking, "he cornered me a classroom, told me to spread the word that people should do as Los Duendos say. He grabbed me, I thought he was going to hit me, but she was passing and she saw us. He stopped, spoke to her, I thought she was going to help me – she's a Safety Patroller – but she just shook her head and me and ran. She left me there." by this time the girl was sobbing, collapsed into Tehama's arms as she shook with fear.

"Which Safety Patroller?" Tehama asked, gently.

The girl sniffed and straightened, her eyes once again finding Fillmore's. "Ingrid Third."


Lost in thought, Cornelius traversed the school hallways on instinct, letting his knowledge of Third lead him to the places she would most likely be. The blonde's words echoed viciously in his head – taunting him. He told himself that the girl was wrong – that she'd made a mistake – that the Ingrid hadn't left a victim to fend for herself. But in his heart he knew that recently Ingrid had changed. As the 'war' with Los Duendos had raged on, his partner had become more and more subdued. The change becoming even more noticeable to him after Ariella conveyed her concern to him. He stubbornly ignored the voice, which wondered if Ingrid was still fit for duty, telling himself that his girlfriend would have confided in him if anything had been affecting her mentally.

His feet led him out of the school and across its grounds. A thin rain was falling, growing stronger as it fell, slowly saturating everything it touched. Paying the wet no mind, Fillmore continued his journey to the school's sentential orchard. His steps followed a familiar route the clearing he and Ingrid had come to think of as theirs. Glancing up, he was only half-surprised to see his partner sitting in a dejected heap on the floor. Moving forward, Fillmore's foot snapped a fallen twig.

At once, Ingrid was on her feet, hair flying in her face as she gazed wildly around her. Upon seeing Fillmore she looked prepared to bolt, but hesitated as her mind warned her that doing so now would produce even more questions from her partner. Instead, she stood there, poised like a startled doe, nervous energy vibrating along her skin. Cautiously, Fillmore edged towards her, gently reaching out his arms to embrace her. When she didn't try to get away, the young detective drew the girl who was both friend, partner and so much more. Ingrid remained frozen for a moment before she gave up all pretence of stoicism and wept into his shirt. Her tears mingled with the rain so as to be barely noticeable.

Cornelius held Ingrid as she cried, his worry mounting with every passing breath. Never before has he seen the young genius reduced to tears and he fretted silently over what could have driven her to seek solace alone.

Eventually, Third's tears lessened then dried and with a ragged breath she gently extradited herself Fillmore's hold. She gave her boyfriend a watery smile, before flopping gracelessly onto the soggy ground below. Fillmore followed suit, not caring that the water soaked through the seat of his jeans. His only concern was Ingrid.

Wrapping one of her hands in his own, Fillmore marvelled at how fragile she seemed. Even now, after she had ceased to cry, she was trembling. He squeezed her hand as an invitation to start talking.

Hesitantly, eyes bright with tears and the control she had striven for ever since her mother's death slowly crumbling away Ingrid began, telling Fillmore everything: from the nightmares that had begun after Johnson attacked her, to the run in with Los Duendos, to the fear Samael's gift had caused her, to being pinned beneath the lockers and how the nightmares had slowly worsened. Last of all she told him how she'd ran.

Listening to it all, Fillmore could not help but feel betrayed.


Swiftly, footsteps falling lightly on the floors, Samael manoeuvred through the hallways of the M.S.C.C. Keeping his head down he dodged past the cadets who had a right to be there, pulling his down lower so as to hide his face. Though he outwardly presented a visage of cold composure, his mind was in turmoil. He had sworn to himself he would not make this visit until it was all over – until he could bask in his triumph and prove to the fools that ran the cadet the calibre of candidate they had let go.

But the question had eaten away at him, driven him mad with fruitless wondering. Now anger warred with worry, quickly establishing dominance and raging freely. As his anger boiled, his footsteps fell more sharply, ringing out in clear, concise tones. Furious now, he struggled to regain his persona as the cold, calculating and ruthless ruler of the underground. It was a hard battle. He felt young and weak – re-walking these halls reminded him that he had once answered to a chain of command – respected that chain of command.

But his shelter had been stolen from him, and now he needed to create his own shelter, regardless of cost.

Pausing in front of a door, Samael knocked sharply, barely waiting for the muffled 'Come in', before slipping into the room. At her desk, in what had once been Adelie Johnson's office, Bridget O'Conner looked up. As Samael lowered his hood, Bridget drew a breath sharply between her teeth. The young commander pushed roughly to her feet, chair scraping painfully against the floor.

"You should not be here." She hissed at him, lips white with tension. "How did you get past the sentries?"

Samael smiled, a half-quirk of the lips that belied any sense of mirth in the gesture. "You forget, that I too, once was a cadet." He made no move to walk forward, or to leave – keeping Bridget in a state of suspense as she watched for any hint of his intent.

He waited patiently for her to break. His patience was endless, hers was not. "Why are you here." She asked eventually. Her was voice harsh and ringing with disdain.

Inwardly, Samael chuckled.

Though Bridget's words were rough and her expression all but welcoming, her actions attested to far less confidence. It was clear that the Major still did not feel entirely secure of her position in the M.S.C.C. – still did not know who was to be trusted and who would turn traitor at a moment's notice – if she had, she would not have hesitated in yelling for all available cadets to come and apprehend him. After all, he was trespassing.

Bridget seemed to come to the same conclusion he had, for she sank slowly back down into her chair – face drawn and tight with an anxiety as she watched him.

"If you came for an explanation," she told him, "I doubt you'll like the answer." When the boy said nothing she continued. "We expelled all we suspected to have been linked to Johnson's scheme. But we also expelled those who we felt were damaged by this environment."

"And in what way was I damaged." Samael hissed, spitting the final word at the girl sitting opposite him.

Meeting his gaze, Bridget spoke calmly. "You were crippled here. You hid your face from prying eyes. We are all young. Such a life is not healthy. I could not let you live, controlled forever by your insecurities."

"Who were you to decide that for me?" Samael screamed at her, eyes wild with fury. "Who were you to take this from me?" His voice cracked with rage, the tendons in his neck cording with the effort of keeping himself in check "You have no idea what it is like."

Bridget gazed at him softly, and Samael turned away – he did not want her pity.

"Are people really so cruel?" she asked eventually.

"No," Samael told her, "but only because I have assured they never will be."


Joseph Anza grinned to himself as he settled his arm around Karen's waist, letting her direct them to a rarely visited part of the park's botanical gardens. Though the school boasted gardens of almost equal quality, neither of the pair had wished to have their time disturbed by the gardening club's after school maintenance.

The pair wound their way through the gardens, laughing, joking, and simply taking the time to enjoy each other's company – the first step to mending the bridges that lay between them. Karen turned, tugging of Anza's hand playfully as she tried to lead him towards the bridge that lay in the centre of the park. Consequently, she failed to see the lone figure on the bridge. Anza was no so unaware. He paused for a moment conscience pricking him. He wondered if he should talk to Fillmore, but convinced himself that the other boy wanted to be alone. His time with Karen was too precious to waste. Laughing, he shook his head and directed Tehama towards the miniature maze.


Fillmore slumped tiredly over the bridge's railings. He understood why Ingrid had been so reluctant to confide in him – pride and fear had combined with a resolve not to let Samael win, to produce a reluctant to acknowledge distress or speak of it to anyone.

However, understanding her actions did not allow him to reconcile them with his feelings of betrayal and guilt. Betrayal – that she had not seen fit to confide in him. Guilt – that he was somehow lacking, and had therefore failed one of the people who mattered most to him.

Exhausted, he took comfort in the fact that at the very least Ingrid was ok. After they had spoke, she had seemed more like the girl he had first been partnered with, than the ghost who had haunted the Safety Patrol these last few days.

Pushing all thoughts of personal turmoil aside, Fillmore focused on Isis and Kapua. He had been mulling the situation all day, and for all he knew Vallejo would balk at the idea, he believed that the only way to settle this once and for all was to call a showdown with Los Duendos. Or, more accurately, with Samael.

He could see no other way of ending this feud, without turning the school into a full fledged war-zone. If he could convince the other Crime Lord to meet him one-on-one – it was possible he stood a chance of ending this. Even if he lost – he would learn the face of his opponent. Faces led to names. A name would equal arrest, and it would be over.

If only he could convince Vallejo.


A/N: Sorry for the inordinantly long time it took to update. Please let me know what you think - the conclusion should be happening within the next few chapters, with an epilogue to follow if needed. As always thank you for reading and apologies for any errors that were missed when this was proof read.