#9: Urban Warfare
Right in front of the Los Angeles Convention Center, four men had been gunned down by a single man and the letters "BTK" were placed before their bodies. It was nothing compared to a whole gang getting wiped out by a faceless thing and two utterly inhuman beasts duking it out in downtown Chicago; but then, maybe they needed some normal crime to ease their minds after almost two weeks of nothing but violent superheroics.
Armando Ortiz still couldn't believe it. Yesterday in Chicago, the wolf skull-headed vigilante known as "The Pocket" had fought some reptilian monster that called itself "Hatred" and had emerged like a car accident victim from a hospital-alive, but just barely. With the arrival of the faceless suited vigilante in Los Angeles that he had christened "Slender Man", two other superheroes had emerged-"The Pocket" and the skeletal, draconic "Guardian" in Detroit, the latter having debuted very early yesterday. The existence of superheroes was now indisputable, especially since The Pocket's battle had been caught by news helicopters. But the world was starting to feel a lot less real now. With the arrival of superheroes, it appeared that supervillains had appeared as well. All around him, the world was starting to become more of a comic book from the Nineties than the existence they had known and been assured of since birth.
And in a way, Armando was upset about The Pocket's fight. Slender Man had been brought to the fore by him since March 9th, he was the world's first real superhero, he had racked up a bodycount of over three hundred in less than two weeks-and the world's first superhero/villain fight had been contested between a werewolf skeleton and a muscular lizard man. Meanwhile, the world's first superhero was stuck dealing with bottom-feeder gangsters and pedophiles.
Okay, so he slaughters criminals, he griped in his head, so him letting anyone off the hook is really unlikely. But come on! Every superhero has a rogues gallery! The fucking Punisher has a rogues gallery! I've already published the damn story revealing this guy; if he just keeps killing regular thugs, then what am I gonna write about?
He looked down at his phone while at the red light. In Baltimore, a pale and shriveled head and body devoid of any fluids were found under an overpass next to a videotape. The video showed what looked like a bluish-green, bat-faced humanoid thing that called itself "Lifeblood" demanding a cure for it's hunger or else more lives would be taken, like the man found next to the tape; he had been identified as some small-time dealer named Freddie Gray, Jr.
So, a supervillain in Baltimore as well. City doesn't even have a superhero, and they've already got one up on Slender Man, he ranted.
The light turned green. Armando turned left to leave Street. A loud crack came from outside. His foot slammed onto the brake when a cloud of red covered his windshield.
Struggling to catch his breath, he threw open his car door and burst out to see exactly what had happened; a huge crowd had already gathered and looked on in horror.
Armando already regretted looking at it. The man's head had been horizontally torn in half by the gunshot from the right temple to the left cheek, and a pool of blood had quickly formed under his body. Pieces of his skull were scattered all over the place and a good deal of his brain was still visible inside his head; some of it was leaking out ever so slowly.
He needed to dial 911 and stop his stomach from ejecting his breakfast.
Even when the crime was "normal", the lunatics who populated the city were glad to show how barbaric they were. They didn't need any powers to do this.
Armando couldn't stop it. He fell to his knees and vomited half-digested brown and orange food. It was only through luck that he fell to the side and passed out instead of into his vomit.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Two gangs-one pale skinned, the other dark-had been engaged in a gunfight when he had arrived on the scene. They didn't stand a chance even though they had outnumbered him twenty one to one. With several punches, the slashing of his eight tentacles, and some telekinetically thrown bullet casings, he had made a mess where several gangsters had been.
Darjil-Kentaar, known to the humans as "Slender Man"-which was, coincidentally, his real name-had noticed a higher rate of activity amongst the gangsters than normal. News of four dead Wah Ching gangsters in front of the Los Angeles Convention Center and a sniped Crips member near there had reached him. The gang that animal Fernando Saldivar had led had also announced a bounty on his head.
Allow them to try, he mused. Such stupid cretins, they are. The more they send at me, the more I tear their walls down.
He was in a bad neighborhood at the moment. It was one of those human dwellings, the ones with rundown houses and blaring music; not to mention, the shrieking of the babies forced to live in such putrid conditions. Branching out his mind, he wasn't too surprised that most of the people in the neighborhood were affiliated with Los Angeles' many gangs in some way. Some were at least halfway decent, such as those forced to live under the gangs' protection in exchange for money; other were far less innocent.
A television was on in one of the houses he slowly walked by. The news broadcast started out simple enough.
"Five have been murdered at the Omni Los Angeles Hotel, and in plain sight as well. Three…"
But as he walked by, it suddenly grabbed his attention.
"What appears to be the killer's calling card was smeared on the walls in the blood of the victims. Now, as shown here-"
Darjil peered through the window and saw a photo of the calling card. Drawn in blood was a circle with a cross running through it.
The Pardtel.
He had found him.
His whole time in this world had been leading up to this moment. For millennia upon millennia, his one goal was to find him. And now, he knew where he was.
He was right here in Los Angeles.
And Darjil would fulfill his duty as a krayatvar. After thousands and thousands of years, it would be done. He would bestow his wrath upon Targen-Genock.
The Operator.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
"Okay, we're live in five, four, three, two…"
Frank Buckley and Jessica Holmes looked into the camera with obviously forced smiles. They had been doing this for years now, and it was no small thing to take over an Emmy-winning news program. Los Angeles was going to Hell-in-a-handbasket, but just because KTLA Morning News was covering it didn't mean they had to go along with the show.
"Welcome to KTLA Morning News. I'm Jessica Holmes" a blonde woman nearing the age of forty announced.
"And I'm Frank Buckley" a black haired, tan middle aged man said.
"This morning, we're just gonna be putting everything aside and talk about what looks like an unprecedented crime wave here in Los Angeles. People are starting to look at this city, Frank, and it is not in a good way" Holmes stated. All the while, Buckley nodded his head almost absently before he spoke up.
"You're right Jessica. This sudden rise in crime is truly astonishing and what makes it really appalling is the number of gang murders that have occurred after the death of Fernando Saldivar, the former leader of the city's MS-13 clique."
"And Erin Myers is currently at the scene of one of those gang murders where witnesses say an unidentified gang shot several-"
Holmes was stopped short by sudden yelling and unintelligible screaming just outside the studio. Buckley and Holmes looked at each other, first in confusion and then in concern before three gunshot split the air. Three bullets penetrated Buckley's head and knocked his body back out of his chair; he was dead before he even hit the ground.
"Oh my God! Oh my-God NO! No, No-!" Holmes shrieked through the hand cupped over her mouth. The camera crew quickly attempted to turn away from the horrific scene only to come face-to-face with several men armed with guns and dressed in seemingly expensive black formal pants and coats.
"Turn the camera back! Turn it back now!" a broad shouldered, copper bearded Hispanic man shouted at the crew. One of them answered with a frightened yet no less defiant "No!" The entire group of men responded with a hail of gunfire and the camera crew screamed as they turned the camera back to the terrified Jessica Holmes and the blood and brains covering the desk.
A new group of well dressed men rushed in with four bloodied black men, their eyes covered with red bandanas. They were roughly shoved to the floor and forced onto their knees. Guns were put to their heads. Two more men ran in behind Holmes and slammed her down onto the desk, face-first; they also put their guns to her head.
"Is the show ready?" a male voice called from off-screen. One of the men holding Holmes at gunpoint shouted, "Yes!"
"Well then!" the voice chuckled. It was deep and throaty, almost inhuman; such a laugh shouldn't have belonged to the same high-pitched voice. Shoes were clip-clopping along the floor before the source of the voice finally showed himself to everyone watching.
Like the other men, he wore leather gloves-though they were blue rather than black-and formal pants. Unlike them, though, his jacket was a blue leather trenchcoat and his shoes were of polished blue snakeskin leather. Like many of the men, he was black, his skin a darker shade of brown though still not as black as the four men on their knees. He was relatively tall, standing at what looked to be six feet and one inch. The man would be considered quite handsome with his formality were it not for his lower jaw and mouth. Much of the skin was gone and revealed taut pink muscle which also exposed his red lower gums. His lips remained, hiding his teeth and the upper portion of his gums.
"Okay. So I know it's rude to just interrupt a news program like this. Especially when it's an Emmy winning production like KTLA Morning! You guys won an Emmy right?" he apparently asked the camera crew. Nothing was said but it appeared that they nodded, as the man smiled and said, "Of course you did! You guys won an Emmy. And you know, I am really sorry that I interrupted such a prestigious-"
He suddenly stopped and burst into a fit of high pitched giggling. Some of the men also started slowly chuckling. He looked back up at the camera, but now, his eyes were devoid of any supposed friendliness.
"Who the hell am I kidding?! I came here for one reason, and one reason only-to tell you who we are! I'm not here to say some cliched bullshit like, "We are the future of Los Angeles!" 'Cause that's stupid. No, I just want to share a story with you. So sit tight and listen up, world."
The man walked up to the desk and picked up the chair Buckley had been sitting in before he sat down. Once he sat, he started speaking again.
"There was once a little boy living in South L.A., with a Black Power dad who liked to whip him with his belt and a mother who enjoyed shooting up. The little boy heard so many stories of how parents should care for and love their kids, and the boy was so sad because his mommy and daddy never loved him! So he set out to set the record straight. Daddy's belt wrapped around his throat and a heroin needle in mommy's ass; that one didn't work, so the boy had to grab daddy's shotgun and euthanize her. The boy wore gloves and called the cops; somebody killed mommy and daddy! Daddy's brother took him in, and he liked the boy, but the boy didn't like the way he liked him! So he tipped the ladder over while uncle was climbing up to the gutter. It was nothing but trouble for the boy after that; when he was sixteen, he joined the Gangster Disciples! He got the lower half of his face burned away! But after a few years in prison for having coke, the boy was a man, and he came back changed. After so many years with whites and Hispanics and Asians and not just the blacks, the man realized that mixing people was the key to any army's success. And having class went a long way too! People like these Bloods represent the criminal world's filth. Dressed in baggy pants, no belts, hardly a shirt-I can't take these motherfuckers seriously!"
The first of the Bloods was shot in the head and fell forward.
"And so, that man formed the Boys of St. Longinus. And that man is yours truly, Luhlaza Lichtgern! From the ashes of Saldivar's pathetic street clique, we rise!"
The second Blood was shot.
"We killed those Vice Lords at E.6th Street! We're gonna kill every single one of these red faggots, 'cause having them on their knees isn't gonna be enough! And we won't stop there-we'll bomb their hideouts! Once we see them, we'll blow their brains out all over the fucking street! We're gonna chop their limbs off, we'll hear them scream, we'll paint this city red with the blood of every gang that thinks they can take first place from us!"
The third Blood was shot.
"A wise man once told me a fascinating phrase; I think it applies very well to our situation. "You want a piece of us, we'll carve a chunk out of you!" Now why do I like that statement? Because that is exactly what we will do! You want to fuck with us? Then you need to be ready for the consequences!"
The fourth and final Blood was shot.
"Oh, and Slender Man-thanks! Really did us a favor when you took out MS-13! You couldn't have come at a better time, my tall tentacled pal; I salute you."
Police sirens could be heard outside. He smiled and pulled a small black device out of his trenchcoat pocket.
"Oh, silly police! I have a surprise for you too! Watch, pig men!"
He pressed down on the device and almost immediately, several incredibly loud blasts were heard from outside. The camera crew screamed and tried to turn the camera away again, only to be told to turn it back by the same Hispanic man.
Luhlaza Lichtgern left the camera's view along with most of the men. The two men holding their guns to Holmes' head slammed their weapons onto the back of her head before departing as well. A new man walked onto the set and poured gasoline onto the floor, the bodies, the desk and chairs.
"Light it up" Luhlaza could be heard saying from offscreen. The sound of a match being struck was heard before it was tossed onto the floor. Flames instantly burst into existence.
"Hey, camera crew! Over here!" The camera turned to face the smiling Luhlaza and his men again.
"Hope you guys can make it through the flames! More of our guys are packing some heavy automatic shit further out in the building, and the closer we get back outside, the more we'll burn this place. Best of luck to you! I'm Luhlaza Lichtgern, and have a great day L.A.!"
It was only at that point that the will to turn off the camera system was found.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Seven of them; seven animals part of that same gang that he had just seen. Monstrosities who had murdered several people-including police officers-before an entire city. And that gang leader was a nasty piece of work, as the humans liked to say. The Operator with a face and two feet shorter.
Darjil-Kentaar wouldn't be surprised if those two somehow found out about each other and became partners.
The seven gangsters parked their car and quickly walked out with six guns and a baseball bat. Black coats and leather gloves, multiple skin colors and ethnicities. Yes, that was them. The skeentesh fell forward off the roof and broke several bones. That never stopped him; he could heal quickly enough.
Screams and guttural shouts could be heard the moment the gangsters burst into the bank. Looking through their minds had uncovered a plan to steal money for heavier weapons as well as kill several random people, with the last half being emphasized by their leader, Luhlaza Lichtgern.
Darjil walked to the front of the bank and teleported inside behind the men. His shadow fell over the seven of them and almost all of the people inside gasped. One of the gangsters, a bearded and mulleted white man, turned and saw him.
"He's-!"
The others didn't have time to react before he punched through the back of the gangster directly in front of him. Darjil ripped out the middle of his spine and threw it into the mulleted man's throat. Now, the five remaining men took notice of him. For the son of Cambodian immigrants, it made it that much easier for Darjil to punch through his face and rip his brain out before he shoved it into the Brazilian's mouth and down his throat. The other white man fired a bullet into his stomach, prompting the people in the bank to scream in terror again. It barely went in thanks to the naturally thicker muscles and bones of the skeentesh and even if it did go through him, he would have barely felt it. Darjil ripped the gun out of the man's hand and eviscerated him with it in a flash before jamming it into the Indian man's head and pulling the trigger three times. The bullet was ejected before the muscles rebuilt themselves and the skin grew back.
He slowly turned his attention to the last man, the black man with the baseball bat. The man forced the look of fear off his face before he ran towards him and pulled the bat back. With a violent cry, he swung the bat towards Darjil-only for the skeentesh to grab it and throw him into the air. While the man was in the air, he spun the bat and grabbed the handle before slamming it into the man's chest as he came down. In a blur, bones broke, muscles were torn apart, and the man was sent flying into the teller's counter. The bat went straight through and impaled him; the lights left his eyes and his head bowed.
Not even a minute had passed and the threat was neutralized. He looked around at the people he had saved. Every single one of their faces was plastered with pure terror and the parents shielded their children's' eyes; people who had pulled out their phones had been so scared they couldn't even bring themselves to take videos of the situation. It wouldn't have mattered anyways, since he never appeared in the camera lens.
"Put your hands up-!"
Darjil spun around and wrapped his hands around his throat. He had caught him! At long last, The Operator was at his mercy! Lifting him high into the air, he gazed at the tentacle-less mockery of him, the exact opposite of everything he was. A cold blooded murderer, a sadist, a beast who thought he was a deity and had a right to abuse his abilities...and now he was going to die at his hands. The Operator's wheezing breaths were like a symphony; after thousands of years, this piece of psychotic shit would die slowly and painfully, just like all of those skeentesh children, just like those people in the hotel...just like his son.
The Operator's face turned purple. Once his breathing stopped, the time for that satisfying crunch would-
Hard light beams seared his chest and torso. What? Why were they shooting him? His own krayatvar were shooting him! The people of his caste who he had fought alongside with for an innumerable amount of years were stopping him from killing The Operator! Did they not-?
He looked at them. They weren't the krayatvar. They were simply security guards at the bank who were shooting at him. He looked at The Operator. What had once been a faceless abomination was another security guard on the verge of death.
Darjil dropped the guard and stopped the bullets with his telekinesis. Those that had hit him were ejected by his healing factor. Once the guards stopped shooting, he let go of the bullets and teleported away from the bank.
He had no doubt The Operator would love the news once it was broadcast tonight.
The Operator had twisted his mind apart without even being there to rip into it.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
San Francisco was the headquarters, but Los Angeles was still the playing ground. Ronald Jheng was the weakest of the three crime bosses in Los Angeles, far behind Koschei Rabinovic of the Russian Mafiya and the anonymous yet enormously powerful El Miedo Humana. Despite having burst onto the scene in the late Nineties and amassing the loyalty of most of the Asian gangs in San Francisco and L.A., he was seen as far too "closed" in comparison to the white Mafiya and the anonymity of Humana. He had made progress in attracting employees of other races and ethnicities, but respect in the underworld still eluded him; some of his men liked to say that it was because of his gray newsboy hat, but that couldn't be it. Rabinovic dressed like a boring businessman to him, so his fashion couldn't be the answer.
But then, Fernando Saldivar had been killed yesterday, most likely by that bizarre "Slender Man" vigilante thing. With that, Los Angeles' most powerful street gang had been wiped out. That news had spurned a rash of gang-related killings early today; the live murders on KTLA Morning News was definitely one for the history books. And a gang war could lead to a serious spike in profits and, above all else, more connections. Recently, he had managed to secure an enormous weapons cache from the Sinaloa Cartel, and while he had no intention to give it all away, selling about thirty three percent of it would be lead to a nice payday and a variety of favors he could call on. The "They're here" from the two guards just outside his door signified the first potential ally of the war.
The guards outside unlocked the door and the two men in his room before the door opened it. Five men wearing Dodgers caps and Oakland Raiders and Lakers jerseys strolled in with smug, stupid grins usually worn by gangsters who knew they would win-both in the meeting room, and in the long run against anyone who crossed them.
Arrogant fags, Ronald thought as he sipped at his water. You five think I'm not one to be taken seriously. Exactly what that Aryan motherfucker thought when he tried to nickname me "Ronnie Boy."
The leader of the men sat in the chair across from Ronald. A laughably large number "18" was tattooed on the left half of his face. One of his teeth was silver while another was simply missing. Nine scars ran along his right arm; nine more along his left.
"So you're the 18th Street Gang's representative?" Ronald asked the man. He couldn't help but wonder how the man could steal so much yet not afford better pants, and maybe a belt as well.
"Who else? These four motherfuckers? Nah, I'm the one who calls the shots here" the man proudly exclaimed, gesturing so wildly he nearly hit Ronald in the face. That would have been a nice excuse; this kid hadn't even told him his name, and he was already getting on his last nerve.
"Mind telling me your name, big shot?" Ronald asked him.
"Victor Garcia" he said with a needless heap of gusto. He laughed.
"Nice handlebar mustache."
Ronald glared at him behind his glasses. "Okay, listen, Garcia; I know you think you're a very hilarious man and that you believe you have a better fashion sense than me, but I am the crime boss here. So it would be nice if you showed me and my men some respect and get serious. Am I clear?"
The smiles of Garcia and his four friends faded in an instant. Garcia's face became similar to a pitbull in repose and he leaned forward while clasping his hands on his crotch.
"Listen, our biggest ally in this city has just been destroyed and we don't wanna be next on Slender Man's hit list. It would be nice if you just play along with what I say. 'Cause you know that we could have just went to the Russians or El Miedo Humana! Think about that."
Ronald chuckled. "And why did you decide to come to me? Tell me, what made me your first choice?"
"'Cause we know about your weapons cache" Garcia told him, getting to the point. "We want in on those weapons because right now, there's nothing stopping Slender Man from tearing us apart just like MS-13. Making a deal would be good for both of us."
"How so?" Ronald asked him.
"If you give us fifty percent of those weapons-no more, no less-then we have a chance to protect ourselves from Slender Man. Nothing's gonna stop us from getting rid of every gang against us. You sell to us, you're gonna make more than you ever would doing anything else. And with all those leftover weapons, and us at your side, then we can do some real damage to the other two syndicates. You want us to burn down El Miedo Humana's drug warehouses? You give us the order, and we'll do it. You want us to kill the Russians' top guys? Tell us who they are, and we'll do it. In the long run, we're both gonna benefit from a pact between the two of us. Just tell us how much you want for fifty percent, and we'll ask where to sign."
Ronald sat up and smiled down at Garcia and his four uneasy partners. Behind them, his two door guards had their hands on their guns. They knew this was going to go south very quickly. He knew how to break it to these five smug bastards.
"You present a very interesting case to me, Mr. Garcia" he announced. "What you say about protecting yourself from Slender Man is quite accurate. What with me being in San Francisco, Slender Man hasn't targeted my syndicate yet, but I know how paranoid you guys are after the death of Saldivar and everyone under him. But you also speak with such great certainty concerning the protection these weapons will guarantee. Tell me, how exactly did you find out about the various experimental weapons in our cache?"
Garcia sneered again. "Looking up your potential friends always helps."
"I'm sure it does" Ronald nodded. His own hand was getting close to his gun. "At least you're honest. And the sum from my sale will truly be extraordinary, that is also very true, if you are really this willing to pledge your support to me. Your gang's determination to get ahead is nothing short of admirable in the eye of the underworld."
He didn't think it was possible, but Garcia's grin grew even wider. The man quickly nodded once and even his four comrades smiled before he started saying, "Come on, you don't need to flatter me so-"
"Thirty three percent."
Ronald couldn't help but smile once Garcia's own faded quickly enough. A few more sentences traded, and this meeting could finally end the way he wanted it to. The two door guards slowly pulled their guns out.
"Are you trying to tell a joke?" Garcia spat. "I think you heard me well enough-we want fifty percent of the cache. Looks like you just wanna piss us off for the damn sake of it!"
"Grow up, Garcia. Are you really so stupid as to think that I'll give you that much of my cache? My syndicate earned that fair-and-square, and that kind of prize is not something I'm just gonna give away to some street shit just because your best pals got butchered. I think you boys are a tad bit too arrogant for my people."
"Yeah, we are too confident" Garcia mocked, "for a low-rank empire of shit like yours!"
Ronald narrowed his eyes. "I'll give you and your friends one chance-get out of here, and tell your leader that I am not impressed with the 18th Street Gang; far from it, really."
Garcia and his comrades drew their guns at that. Ronald's two bodyguards did as well, and he picked up his glass of water before he stepped back and drew his gun at the same time. His reason for backing up against the wall was so the two men under his desk could flip it over and instantly face the five gangsters, their guns having been cocked a long time ago.
While the desk was being flipped over, the door was being unlocked. The moment the desk was flipped over, the door was thrown open and the two guards outside ran in as well. Not soundproofing the room had paid off for Ronald.
With the two bodyguards to his side, nine guns were trained on the five gangsters. They had been so confused by the sudden appearance of four more men that they could have never been prepared when Ronald and his four bodyguards fired their guns. The four other guards soon added their fire, riddling Garcia and his comrades with a more than three dozen bullets. Their shirts were little more than collections of holes and blood ran down their pants and soaked the floor.
"Darreon" he told one of the men from under the desk, "take the bodies. Burn all of them, but make sure to cut off Garcia's head and keep it for a bit. We'll be sending it back to the 18th Street, along with a personal message."
"Not worried about potential retaliation, sir?" the man named Darreion asked. Ronald took another sip of water.
"No, not at all. The 18th Street Gang is in enough hot water as it is, what with the death of the MS-13 and the gang war and all that. Now do as you're told, and get this pile of dog shit out of my fucking sight."
Darreon nodded and dragged the five bodies out with the other desk guard and the two guards outside. Ronald placed his glass of water back down on the desk once his bodyguards straightened it out. Pulling out his phone, he looked through his email and saw a new message from somebody he had never even heard of until earlier today.
Well, isn't this interesting…, he thought with a wry smile.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
He just needed a pair of shades, and he would look exactly like the typical Man In Black. The monochrome suit and tie, unflinching posture and expression, brown hair combed to the side…
"Three Class-C Amnesiacs. You go home, and the moment you get inside, you take these. Nothing of your time here will be remembered."
He took the three Amnesiacs from the man. He stood there and looked into his eyes for a minute; nothing. This man was a slave to them, through-and-through. Doing what was asked of him was the only purpose in his life.
It was a long drive home. By the time he pulled into the garage, it was past eleven. No stars were visible in the sky.
With his resignation having been officially filed and accepted, this home was the only thing that would greet him. He looked down at the Amnesiacs; he hated what they did, how they treated them, their coldness.
But he couldn't bring himself to forget. Normal people would never even dream of seeing something like 682. Their lives were like ants, stuck in an endless loop of boredom and the inability to understand the truth of the world around them.
He threw the Amnesiacs away. He would take those memories to his grave.
"Sir?"
Thomas Hellner, publisher and editor-in-chief of the Los Angeles Time, was snapped out of his memories concerning the Special Containment Procedures Foundation. He scowled at the sight of Armando Ortiz, the journalist who had brought the Times much success with his story about "Slender Man".
"What do you want?" Hellner snapped.
Armando stepped back. "I-sir, you...you asked me to come in here."
"Oh. Right, right. Okay. I want to ask you which story you want to cover" Hellner remembered. He looked down at the notes he had taken when the detectives had called him. An unconfirmed number of dead at the burned KTLA News building, seven gangsters dead in a bank at the hands of Slender Man; that would be a brilliant piece. The first time the world's first superhero had been seen by a huge crowd.
"What stories?" Armando asked him.
"Well, the first is about the gang that attacked the KTLA News building, and the other is about how Slender Man killed seven gangsters in a bank-"
Out of nowhere, Armando yelled at him and made several unnecessary motions with his hands. That was new. Sure, the guy had tried to argue with him before-just like so many of them had-and Hellner had always been willing to dish it back, but he had never been this riled up. The closest he had come to such a state was when he had protested getting close to Fernando Saldivar's gang befor it he had been wiped out.
"I don't want to cover either of them! I want nothing to do with any of this gang bullshit!"
Hellner fought back the urge to stand up and face the little brat. What, did Ortiz really want to be one of those one-hit wonder journalists? So he had reported on the first superhero; who the hell did he think he was?
"Now what the hell is this about?" Hellner barked back. "Why are you suddenly so against any of these stories? You've covered three dead Crips, a whole dead gang, and were about to cover four dead Wah Ching. And now, you have the nerve to yell at me, your boss, and say you don't want to do your job?!"
"All of these deaths, these gang attacks-they're because of me! People are getting killed and lives are being put at risk because of me!" Armando exclaimed with an overly enraged expression and a grating emphasis on the last word. Personally, Hellner saw his reaction as melodramatic and hilariously over-the-top; even Brian Blessed was more restrained than him. He couldn't help but laugh at Armando's hamfisted rage.
"What the hell are you laughing at asshole?!"
Hellner stopped laughing.
"Now what did you just call me?" he whispered, knowing full well what Armando had said. "You better get your priorities straight, Ortiz, 'cause getting your ass kicked by me shouldn't be so goddamn high on your to-do list! You start screaming at me about how you don't want to do your job, and you expect to get paid for your bullshit? Enough company time was wasted when you threw up your stomach and went black! And now-now you're trying to excuse yourself by saying that this is all your fault!"
"It is! You don't understand! When I wrote about Slender Man, bombs started going off and dog photos flew all over the city. Now, MS-13 is dead because of this freak, and people are killing each other because of him! Because of my exposure! Why can't you understand that innocent lives are at risk because of what I wrote?"
While Armando was talking, Hellner noticed six policemen walk out of the elevator. He remembered four police officers visiting him in his office early yesterday morning; they were Foundation moles attempting to silence him and the Slender Man story.
Six cops in the building? How the hell are these people just able to walk-
None of the cops had their shirts tucked in and all of them had their guns drawn, the weapons being casually held like a suitcase.
"Are you listening to me?" Armando asked.
One of the cops raised his gun and fired a bullet into a man's heart at point blank range. He was dead in a second.
The entire workroom exploded into mayhem. People ran and screamed without any rhyme or reason, knocking things over and shoving each other to the ground. Another man and a woman were shot; their bodies were riddled with multiple bullets before they fell. One woman tried to place one of the cops in a chokehold, only to be greeted with an elbow that sent her to the floor; two bullets to the head later, and she was dead. Two bullets to the chest and two to the stomach, two to his back as his body spun around-dead. Four to the upper torso-a dead body slumped against a cubicle. Seventeen bullets to the head, chest, stomach, shoulders, and legs-dead.
One of the cops saw Armando in Hellners office and aimed.
"GET DOWN!" Hellner shouted, and Armando did so the moment he said it. He crawled over to Hellner's side of the desk while Hellner threw the chair across from him into the air to obscure the cop's vision. His face contorted into a snarl before he stomped over to the door; before he pushed it open, Hellner crouched behind the desk and grabbed a pencil from his supply holder.
"Get up, Ortiz! Fucking cunt, I'll take your "superhero" ass and slice your head-!"
Hellner shot up, forcing the cop to aim up before ramming the pencil into his left eye. He proceeded to shriek his lungs out, so nothing was drowned out by the bullet he accidentally fired into the ceiling. Forcing him to look up, Hellner rammed the pencil down even further until a sickening, drawn out squelching noise came from the cop's head; a few breaths later, and he was silent. He ripped the pencil out and dropped it onto his desk before he laid the cop's body down, flat on the floor.
"Stay here" he told Armando as he took the gun and walked over to the door.
"Sir, don't you think-"
"If I'm young enough to beat up four SCP cops in a few seconds, I can take down five insane cops in less than that!" With that, he threw open the door and noticed a cop pistol whipping the sports writer, Trey Gardner, until Gardner let go. Shockingly enough, his favorite target, economics writer Rainer Mueller, rushed in and tackled the cop to the ground. It didn't last long, though; the cop managed to knee Mueller off of him, and soon, he was the one on top of Mueller with his gun to the writer's head.
Time seemed to slow down for Hellner as he lifted the gun and fired. The first bullet pierced the lower left half of the cop's back. The next bullet ripped into the upper right half. Finally, the third bullet sped right into his back, the sound of exploding bone reaching his ears. With a short gasp, the cop fell forward. Mueller pushed him off.
"Where the fuck are Kess and Bosley?" one of the cops angrily asked as three of them ran up to the elevator.
"Don't know where Bosley is, and-" one of them was saying before he looked to where Mueller was. "Kess is definitely dead."
"Goddamn it! This is bullshit, how is one of us dead and the other missing?!" the third cop shouted as the elevator doors parted. A fourth cop ran up to the group with a beaten and bloodied woman in tow.
What the hell do they want with her?!, Hellner asked himself as he the cop put his gun to the head of Lara Jessup, one of his longest serving editors, with seventeen years of working for the Times and four for the Chicago Tribune. There was no reason for her to be held at gunpoint by what appeared to be fake cops; she had never done anything wrong. She was a clean slate when it came to her record, and truth be told, she had a pretty bland personality. She didn't deserve to get shot dead at work or die in such a brutal manner!
The cop looked up and his eyes met Hellner's; he grinned. The trigger was being pulled back…
Even Hellner was startled by the shot from the gun that Mueller had picked up. The shabby man yelped the moment he pulled the trigger and fell onto his behind; in a daze, he looked down at the smoking weapon. Mueller's aim wasn't good enough to hit any vital areas, but the bullet did manage to graze the top of the cop's right arm. Blood oozed from the wound and the cop dropped the gun and Jessup before he grabbed his arm and fell to his knees. Hellner aimed right between his eyes and fired; the gun jerked up and the bullet quickly went lower than it's intended point before it tore through the cop's nose, leaving only the upper portion of the appendage. The bullet exited from the back of his head, just above his neck.
One of the three cops in the elevator popped out and aimed at Hellner, who would have none of it. He fired a round into the cop's stomach before firing again into his chest; the cop fell back into the elevator, which closed immediately afterwards.
All around him was chaos. Bullet holes dotted the walls and cubicles, as well as several bodies. More than four people were dead and over seventeen were wounded, at least from what he could tell. Everywhere he looked, people were calling 911, trying to get their wounded coworkers to stay with them, or sobbing. Trey Gardner was bleeding from multiple head injuries thanks to the pistol whipping, and they were disgusting to look at indeed. His temples were becoming multiple shades of purple and visibly swelling up, even nearly bulging in a few areas; Gardner was still coughing up blood and struggling to get up. Meanwhile, Mueller was still sitting on the ground, staring the gun in his now-shaking hands.
"Umm...sir" Armando said, forcing him away from the carnage. Hellner followed him into the office; no motions or words were needed. The body of the first dead cop greeted him, but it had been flipped over and the back was exposed.
"You-you know I don't like getting my office dirty…" Hellner mumbled, saying the words out of mere convention. Right now, he didn't have the heart to get mad at anyone but the six men who had invaded the Times' headquarters and murdered his employees.
"I know" Armando said. "I used two Post-it notes to flip over the body and placed one of them under where the left eye would be. Next, I used my other Post-it note hand to start looking through the pockets-"
"Post-it notes?" Hellner said; it was as much a statement as it was a question.
"To not get my fingerprints on the body or clothes. Anyways, I found nothing in any of the pockets but a few spare bullets. But while I was doing that, I moved the guy's shirt a bit by accident and saw what looked like a tattoo. See four yourself."
Hellner looked down at the cop's exposed back and studied it thoroughly. Just a thin tattoo running along the man's back, right where his spine was.
"Looks like a spear" he told Armando.
"Yeah, and you know who the guy who pierced Jesus' side was?" Armando asked.
"No. Just because I'm a black Methodist, doesn't mean I know every single word in the Bible" Hellner grumbled. In his head, he was wondering just where the hell Armando was going with this little bit of religious trivia.
"Well, okay, he kind of doesn't have an actual Biblical name-"
"Then what are you trying to say?"
"-but the Catholic Church, they say that his name's Longinus."
"Now what is that-!" Hellner was beginning to say when he remembered the information he had been given by the detective and the news he had seen on his phone.
His breathing sped up; he was beginning to understand why Armando had fainted.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Totheark checked the camera; full battery, latest Canon model. His aim was steady and true; his hands never shook when he filmed.
The hacker pulled the black ski mask over his plain face and brown hair, before he pulled the hood over his head. On one hand, it represented the skin he had shed, and the new coat that had grown; they were vague memories now. A time when he was a simple hacker, his skills deluding him into a drunken god complex. A man named Brian Thomas. A time before the skeentesh named The Operator entered his mind, twisting a message to come to the nearby forest, telling him of true godhood that would come of The Ark if he worked for him.
On the other hand, aesthetic was always nice.
"What is taking you so long?" The Operator whined in his usual deep bass-baritone voice, one reminiscent of a person attempting to speak underwater. The eight foot tall, faceless and bald creature shoved the door open and stomped into the room. Standing at only five feet and ten inches, Totheark couldn't help but shudder as he looked up at the "suited" creature, its shadow like a shroud pulled over a cold corpse.
"I-I'm just making sure everything is ready…" he answered meekly. The skeentesh's affability was a shallow attempt at a face; Totheark knew that when The Operator was pissed off, he didn't like to smash everything around him. Somebody was going to suffer terribly.
"Well? Are you done or what?" The Operator asked. Totheark attempted to hide the enormous gulp; he failed.
"In a sense; the camera's good to go, I have all of the computer and phone passwords in the area and I've tapped the phone lines and television cables-"
The Operator laughed. He sat on the floor and pressed his hands together, raising them to where a mouth would be on a human. Totheark couldn't say that he was really surprised; The Operator swung back and forth more often a bipolar person on a hammock.
"Seriously, where do you get this shit? All of the passwords? Really, can you tell your buddy just how you can do something like this? I mean, I don't want to be a nuisance, but come on, I want to know how the hell you manage to find every single damn password!"
"Can't you just look into my mi-?" Totheark was asking, even though he knew that it was pointless.
"Yeah, I can, but I don't want to. So answer my damn question!" The Operator shouted.
Totheark toyed with the camera in an attempt to make it look like he wasn't intimidated. "First thing I did was look through a whole bunch of trashcans and dumpsters, 'cause you know how people usually write down their information so they don't forget it and then throw it away anyway. Near schools is the best place, where students constantly throw away old papers, and a lot of that has personal shit on it. Passwords and usernames being printed out as part of bank and school account printings really makes it that much easier."
The Operator snorted. "Dumbass kids!"
"Along with that, I looked through the Yellow Pages and called up some people; told them I was part of a national survey that wanted to see what the most common and most odd passwords are. Of course I asked for both the smartphone and computer passwords, both at home, work and school for the kids. I promised them that I only need their I.P. addresses and phone carriers and that they would remain anonymous otherwise."
"You and I are a great deal similar in that; you know that, Totheark? It's just like asking a kid if they want candy-they go off about how their parents said not to talk to strangers, and then you say you'll just drop them off at their parents' house! It'll be between you and me!" The Operator observed. He rose back to his feet and grabbed Totheark by his jaw, forcing him to look up at him. "Clearly, you've put in a lot of effort to make sure you don't fuck this up like that incident with Alex."
"But it was to protect your better interests! That Kralie asshole was veering away from your course, and I wanted to send him a message! I took the effort to act like a friend to that whiny douchebag to drag him into your net, and you just expected me to sit there as he flew all over the place and thought that being a Source was some kind of fucking disease!" Totheark raged. How could he forget that loose cannon Alex Kralie? Thanks to that little imbecile, the others had been led to the belief that being a Source was a disease that could be spread by knowledge of it. It would truly be a miracle if they could ever make any further progress against that renegade Tim and his gang of losers (whoever was part of it, anyways).
The Operator wasn't impressed. "I don't care how much of an outlier Kralie was becoming, you don't beat up a Source unless I give you permission to! Now are you going to continue trying to redeem yourself in my non-existent eyes, or are we going to start our show?!"
"Okay, okay. Look, I'm so-"
"Mmh! What did I just say? Please quit trying to test my patience. If you're really sorry, then you would have taken your meds already. Have you?" The Operator asked.
"Yes, I did" Totheark groaned. The chronic coughing fits had been grating on his nerves since he was a child; the last thing he had needed a few months ago was that bastard Tim stealing them under the belief that they cured The Operator's influence. The Operator himself had found it hilarious, not the least because of Totheark's constant inability to form a complete sentence without his medication; Totheark had been far less amused.
"Thank goodness. Wouldn't want any scratchy throats interrupting our filming! You ready?"
Totheark nodded and stowed his camera under his arm. The Operator motioned him towards the other room's door, so they could be closer to the basement. They had been forced to settle down in a rundown apartment for the time being after The Operator had killed several people at their hotel; luckily for them, Totheark had immediately packed all of his equipment once they heard that the police were coming.
"Think about it, Totheark-that fuckhead Darjil gets exposed through a newspaper. A newspaper! It only stands that I get a much more dynamic entrance; one a bit more...modern to fit with the new age."
(NEXT ISSUE: The world receives a terrifyingly rude awakening. An unholy alliance is forged. A new villain is conceived. All this in Slender Man #10: Urban Warfare #2.)