Find me.

Falling straight down, no chance for stopping. The whistling air fanned the fiery tendrils wafting from his back. When he hit solid ground, he immediately rolled. He griped at the smell of singed fleshed, huffing painfully when he was sure he'd smothered the flames completely. The tunic no longer served its purpose. He tore it from his body, tossing it away out of spite for himself.

At last he took stock of the surroundings: black and dense but sufficient in clean air. His fingers wiggled into soft, rich soil. He sifted a handful. Mingling bodily fluids created an unintentional mud mask over his naked torso.

The sudden thunderous collapse of above shook him and the cavern. He hunkered down, tendrils of smoke and trailing embers still rising from his own body as hot steamy air blasted him. Heavy clouds of black smoke as high as the ceiling. The hole that he'd come through, as had the Black Dragon before him, filled in: trapped.

Find me.

He rocked to sitting up, the crunching motion of this ripping tenderized flesh up and down his side. He felt a rib move with a twinge of equally hot pain. He rose with the little fluidity he could muster.

Find me.

His landing place was obviously underground. Most importantly, it was directly below the foundation of the now-defunct temple.

Chinatown itself had been built with an extensive set of underground tunnels to match those of the surrounding city. Tunnels that were built to multipurpose: secret meeting places, storage, time capsules. For whatever reason, the founding fathers had found them necessary, as had the founding Chinese community. They crossed the entire city, several miles underground at some points, each meeting up with another.

The absolute den for dâ zhàng.

Kato blinked rapidly, harrowing thoughts boomeranging, stringing it all together now.

Find me.

A Dragon is most at home in his dirt …

Find me.

Kato took his next steps with care, the curves of his musculature sharpening.

A different kind of Room…same set of rules …

"Lo Sing!" He called, voice traveling far. On command, the electric lanterns that were strung high as far as the eye could see flickered on. Kato tensed for an attack. None came. He blinked with this new light, continuing on, heel to toe. "You traded one prison for another! Still the rat running for the darkness once the light is turned on!"

He reached a four way, and stopped in the crossroads, waiting for a sign; reached out with all his senses. Sinisterly dripping laughter came at him from all sides. He spun in place, staggered. His spine crawled with his skin. A voice covered in the same delicious evil crawled around him like a cold cemetery wind, "Is he dead?"

Kato looked to the ceiling for reference, seething quietly, "No. He'll survive. One of us has to. To make sure you don't."

More wicked cackling, "The Red Dragon is ascendant! Only took destroying the lying image you have built up for the last 14 years…"

"Take away the tattoo, the false godhood…You're still Lo Sing!"

Real wind swept about him. Black Dragon appeared in a swirl of black, blankly menacing. "Lo Sing is dead. He was a rat just racing time for his piece of cheese. I am the Enlightenment! And this," he raised his arms, sleeves billowing, "Is my domain to illuminate."

Kato charged, pounding through the pain screaming in his side to stop. He leaped in a sidekick, sliding smoothly through the air at head level.

He hit rock face instead of body. The Black Dragon vanished like a ghost just as Kato's foot connected. He cracked a wide cleavage in the wall instead, big black splotches rearing across his field of vision. He fumed, whipping blood out of his eyes and mouth, flopping to his stomach. His fingers gouged deep as he clawed his way to his feet.

Black Dragon's essence cascaded through the tunnel, "Lao Yin will destroy the memory of the men you and Britt Reid were in life, and I will destroy the myth in death." The phantom stench of fresh blood permeated. Britt's blood…"There is no escape, Hayashi Kato…no running. No rich white man to save you. "

Ignoring the taunts, "We are not alone in this fight. You won't have the peace of victory!"

Cānglóng 's sneer reverberated, "Of course I will. This city will be begging for mercy by nightfall. For me to mold at my will—a true dynasty of dâ zhàng unlike anything the world has ever seen. A whole city dedicated to the art! Everything you…Reid…and the Daily Sentinel stood for: blown away."

He reappeared, starkly blazoned in hues of red and black, to throw a small remote in a high arch between them. From Kato's time as the Green Hornet's companion, he knew a detonator when he saw one. This one could only mean be more devastation for them personally. He lunged for the catch.

Only, again, his quarry vanished into thin air, this time with a shimmering effect, like…

…Like smoke in mirrors…

Kato landed hard on his stomach, just a bunch of nothing in his fist. He bolted from the dirt, blood thrumming hot and ready. "How many more have to die? How many more…when it's me you wanted! I'M HERE. LEAVE THEM."

"YOU SHOULD HAVE ASKED YOURSELF THAT A LONG TIME AGO." The vengeance in this disembodied scream rattled loose crumbs of debris. "You…gave up your heritage, your home. You gave up your right to ask that when you abandoned your destiny. NOW I HAVE IT ALL! …And there's no room for men like you anymore." Somewhere, in this tunnel or the next, a chakram was pulled for emphasis. Its metallic song had wings on it.

"No." Kato agreed with grim finality, "No, there's not."

A new cloud of white billowing smoke trickled in about his feet. The lights went out all at once. The cloud became a mist, enveloping like a soft warm blanket. Kato instinctively knew he should not breathe it, should have no part of it, but it was too late. The mist evaded him completely. It tickled his nose, numbed his skin…weighed down his limbs as if the muscles and bones had evaporated. He felt his senses dimming; only to then explode into terrifyingly excruciating hyperactivity. He yelled as he fell to his knees. Solid rock became squishy quicksand, sucking at him.

Pure palpable terror reached out to throttle him. His mind rapidly twisted in on itself at this caricature of reality. The last words he'd remember came from the abyss, demonic in their growl. They sealed a fate he'd cheated once before:

"Nǐ huóle xiàlái yīgè fángjiān de jìngzi. Nǐ jiāng wúfǎ shēngcún wǒ de...You survived one Room of Mirrors, Hayashi Kato. You will not survive mine. "

7:00pm

Daily Sentinel City Room

Chaos. Phones ringing off the hooks, papers fluttering from desks on the breezes made by rushing bodies, raised voices crisscrossing as conflicting reports hit the wires. Gunnigan manned two phones, talking into both, and screaming orders over shoulder at the same time. He'd lost his tie sometime in the last 3 hours, a few buttons too. He'd lose his sanity any minute now, if:

"CAN ANYONE TELL ME WHERE IN THE HELL MICHAEL AXFORD IS?"

He slammed both phones, rocketing his roller chair back into the desk behind him to grab at the scribbled notes he'd left there, except they're gone, his wheels tangled in phone cords and, "GODDAMNIT, I NEED AXFORD!"

"Here he is, sir!"

Axford flew past his announced arrival, the ruckus of his bewildered colleagues of just vague interest to him. His desk was what he wanted. He slammed into the seat, pulling open draws and pawing tabletop in earnest. Gunnigan stomped up behind him, "Where the devil have you been?! I have been yay deep in this bullshit for the last three hours without any help, Mr. Senior Reporter, so-!"

Axford snatched his hand from his main cabinet with a handful of bound manuscript. His other suddenly had ahold of Gunnigan's collar, grappling with the man to drag him, yelling and swearing, into Britt's office.

Even with two rooms, several inches of glass, and wooden frame between them, the city room without was bathed with Gunnigan's ire, dimming the hubbub noticeably.

"You crazy, red blooded Irishman-! The hell are you DOING?! THIS IS A CRISIS, OR HAVEN'T YOU NOTICED?!"

Axford was speechless, but not for the usual counter assault. Gunnigan had finally blown his top enough to realize Axford was too overcome to speak. "…Whuh? What's the matter with you?"

Axford made several large gestures, trying to fill the space of the office, "I—I was at the precinct…tryna get the facts'n…"

"Your accent's about two feet thick, man! Calm down."

Axford gaped at him, as if his demands were asinine at the very least, ludicrous at worst. "Calm down." He intoned breathlessly. "Calm down…" Gunnigan pursued his lips, ready to burst again. "Don't have time for your bumbling, Axford…!"

Slumping in his posture, Axford rubbed eyes deep into their sockets to grit out, "Time: we don't have any left…! Not for secrets, not for lies…none of it!"

"Damn it man! Out with it! What do you know?!"

Axford peered through his fingers at Gunnigan. He made no attempt to hide his tears. "It was Jimmy Kee's wedding today…" He mumbled softly, "Center of Chinatown, full of people celebrating…

The Chief Editor stared, "The explosions…?"

Axford covered his mouth, trying to process his next sentence. "…I dunno how ta say this, so I'm gunna say it straight: …Britt, Casey, Kato: all three of them were down there. All of 'em: right in the bloody goddamn middle of it."

Gunnigan searched for a hard surface to sit on, nearly ending up on the floor. He was a fish out of water, mouth forming words but going no farther. When he found the words, he couldn't say them.

"… they're keeping people away from there, press included, but some of the boys that were with the DA talked ta me. All they know…is that Britt survived the blasts...I dunno about Casey, I don't even wanna think about it … The boys said they saw him arguing with Scanlon, that he was hurt pretty bad…his head banged up, but he was alive!"

Gunnigan brightened briefly on the hope that statement offered, but had that hope epically flame out when Axford added, "But then he ran off like a bat outta hell soon enough, and they don't know what happened to him after that…Scanlon ain't talking, busy down at the triage tents. A lotta the buildings are collapsing too… and…and I mean, it's possible…."

Gunnigan scoffed in self-agonizing frustration, "Damn it!"

Axford got to his feet, trying to put his face right, "I came back to tell you…I'm going in there. I'm going to find him and Casey."

"Mike! You can't! You said it yourself, they're keeping people away!"

"I have to."

"…Crazy old coot! I need you here—I can't run this show by myself." He pointed enthusiastically out the office windows, "Those people are falling apart when I need them the strongest! You're the senior reporter of the entire corps! You owe them your back!"

Axford was stoic, "They need Britt. They want him. He's the fearless leader, the one to get them going when all they want to do is run to their own families! Not us. I'll get 'em. Just give me the word."

"Me? Word—? …Axford, you're nuts-!"

"You're 'n charge now. So I'm asking ya: let me go down to Chinatown and find Britt and Casey, Kato if I can."`

"You're asking?! When the hell did you ever care what I said?"

Axford wavered, the manuscript wrinkling in his graps, "Because I'm scared…Gunnigan. Mmscared of what I'm gonna find if I do go down there. If you send me as a reporter, I could do it. Otherwise..."

Gunnigan swallowed, sucking on his upper lip, tasting the sweat budding there. "Yeah…yeah, okay." His eyes scrunched, imaging the worst, "Go. Find them."

The crumpled tome passed between them, Gunnigan juggling its hand off, "Take this" Axford said. "Read it, all of it. Then publish it. The whole thing, as is. Leave nothing out. Take up the whole damn paper if you have to, but get it out there! We're gonna get some payback if it kills us…"

The editor looked over the words, the type set, its phrasing, even down to the handwritten notes in the margins, "…I don't get it."

Axford unlocked the door, jamming his hat over his ears with egress, "You will."

Gunnigan remained seated, peering at nothing in particular. He snapped out of it with a heavy sigh to stand and shake Axford's hand. The only sign of truce there would ever be between them, "Hey," he grumbled softly, "Good luck. And call, alright? Like more than zero times?"

Axford accepted the gesture, allowing himself a weary half smile. "Yeah. Sure."

In the streets below, the city was driving as one from the heart of the disaster, bumper to bumper, groceries stacked for the long haul in more than a few backseats. All wanted to get home just so they could hug their families a little tighter.

When, in their review mirrors, the disaster was suddenly right where they'd just come from.

Some ran the curbs, crashing into fire hydrants; or telephone poles, live wires sparking over hood; or pedestrians too dumbstruck themselves to get out of the way… just as chucks of stone and concrete rained down like bowling balls. The explosions rolled over the street as their earlier counterparts had. Those able scrambled for cover.

Those not just stared blankly at the inferno scarring the skyline. Axford was among them, his cheek and forehead gashed open. He'd made it out of the parking lot just before the first blasts rocked the building. His blood dripped to his shoe tops unnoticed. He was numb.

The Daily Sentinel was on fire. Her skin ripped open, crumbling. Debris swirled around her like a dirty black skirt.

He and the others held on to that image, praying it was just a horrible hallucination.

Until she exploded again.

7:30 pm

Triage Tent Alpha

5 miles from Chinatown Main

Panic. Fear. Scanlon was caught up in the surging wave of humanity trying to run from it. Their screams were not so much in agony this time, but in cruel acceptance. Their world had been bombed to hell once just hours ago, and now it was happening again.

Scanlon grunted at his near trampling. He caught a flap of the tent for anchoring and swung to the outside to let the mass drain past him. He followed their path, every one of them coming to a standstill at the edge of the encampment. Police officers with radios glued to their ears ran for their patrol cars. Those wallowing, boatish Dodge Coronados whipped about with lights and sirens blaring, heading for the city proper.

Scanlon's heart plummeted with the next round of distant explosions. The strength was undiminished by the distance as light shaking hit the tent and its occupants. Doctors and their nurses strove to abate the terror rising in their patients at these rolling reports.

The new black smudge on the cityscape's horizon grew in size with each boom. A splotch of orange swirled in its depths, reaching like a finger high into the twilight. It was so awfully close to the-

"My God," he breathed, covering his mouth. "God in Heaven, no…!" Scanlon escaped back in to the tent, pushing through the tide of staff and patient, looking for his sergeant

"Sergeant Drake!" he called out, drawing the attention of the squarely built senior officer. He always took Tom Drake with him on field calls because the Irishman was no-nonsense and stridently cool under pressure.

But here and now, Scanlon pulled up short at the bleakness in the man's gray gaze as he absorbed the excited chatter over his radio, nodding every so often; muttering affirmations. When he saw Scanlon watching him, he affixed his uniform's cap to the proper angle and tried for completely business-like. "Sorry, Counselor…gotta pull my men. Need to head back to the city. All hands on deck for this one."

He moved to push past, but Scanlon stopped him. "Tom," he pressed. "Don't hide it…I can see it on your face. I saw the smoke and the fire …It's the Daily Sentinel. Isn't it."

Drake pulled back, wrapping the tough beatcop exterior around him. Another deep rumble coursed underfeet. They both turned to look, tuning into the gasping exclamations outside.

"Oh god, not again! Why?!"

"…Keep hitting us…!"

Drake shuddered, tipping his cap back to scratch his forehead. He was loathed to look this man in the eye, knowing how much Britt Reid meant to him; knowing he and his men had spent the last few hours searching for Britt Reid and his companions, alive or dead, on Scanlon's command, only to come up empty; knowing Scanlon knew more than he was telling, that it was tearing his guts up inside, that he somehow felt responsible. To put more on his shoulders just didn't seem fair… "Yessir, it's the Daily Sentinel. She's partially collapsed. Unknown casualties, lotsa injury. …Mmsorry."

A shot in the dark that squarely hit its mark. Scanlon folded in on himself. The final nail in their coffin. "Dear God," he managed weakly. "Axford…! All those people…"

"I can't keep my men out lookin' for Mr. Reid and his friends, Counselor. They need everybody available on scene. If—if I can possibly spare some of them once we get there, I'll send them back."

Scanlon didn't hear his sympathetic promise. He was too busy taking in the hurried pace of the tent. Seeing doctors changing blood soaked gloves, of their calling for more morphine, wrapping bandages as they soothed these hurt worried faces. They weren't listening to the explosions. They refused to hear them, refused to think of how many more were dead or dying.

But he was. He had to. Britt's last words, Take care of yourself, Frank. Don't wait up for me…

How could you think I wouldn't, Britt? How could you think that? Take care of myself? I can't even protect you, your life's work…!

"…Counselor? Mr. Scanlon!" Drake shaking hold on his forearm brought him out of it. "Sir! I have to go now. You'll be alright?"

Scanlon didn't answer, his voice lost somewhere between his heart and stomach, both dropping by the second. Drake couldn't wait, just squeezed his boss's arm and took his leave. He was at his patrol car, radioing in his approach and making sure his men were doing the same, when the district attorney returned to his side. He was winded, pale…looking like a man with a bad case of death warmed over.

"Sir, you should get out of here yourself. Go to your office, better yet, go home. You can't do anything here except make yourself crazy."

"I—I can't. Not yet. But you can do me another favor…that might help me go easier: when you get there, look up Michael Axford? You know him."

"Ah. Yeah, yeah, Mike…I know 'em. He was hanging around the precinct last I checked, but sure, Counselor." He smiled sadly, " 'Nother friend of Reid's?"

Scanlon nodded tightly, pulling off his glasses to stare at the ever blackening cloud over the city. "Another friend."

"…We'll find Reid alive, Mr. Scanlon. Any guy with as many good friends pulling for him as he has ain't gonna be one to go out this way."

He had to walk away without speaking again, feeling flayed open, and not very much the leader of the law he was supposed to be. He should have gone harder, faster; outpaced Britt instead of following. He should have slammed the bars down on Lao Yin, and caged his muscle with the rest of the animals. He should have collared Britt and Kato from the second Kato lost to Cānglóng . He should have made the two leave!

But, he could never talk to Britt, let alone stop him…he was—is—is— this driving force of willfulness, piledriving everything he has into whatever or whoever has drawn his ire. The Green Hornet never suffered fools. He'd have very little to do with someone he'd previously trusted turning coat.

So what do I do now, Britt?

Another lesser explosion rolled over the horizon, drawing eyes and ears to the source. A small group formed up to watch. Some were the walking wounded, others were family members come to find their loved ones, for better or worse. And then some were those who had felt the need to come down to help. Scanlon excused himself to the front of the pack. An older gentleman, his gray suit torn and bloodied, with a bandage around his head, nudged Scanlon to get his attention. He offered up an open pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?"

Scanlon accepted without hesitation, nodding gratefully. "I've been craving one all day."

The man flipped out a silver lighter, sharing the flame between them. The headrush from the first inhalation felt so damn good, Scanlon closed his eyes to savor the flavor.

"Don't tell me this was the day you decided to quit?"

"No…no, thankfully. Actually quit a while ago, but…"

The man understood the trailing off, going back to the smoke filled horizon. "Yeah, I hear you."

Scanlon took a deep tug, settling his stomach and mind further, "Thanks…for this. I needed it."

"No problem. Name's Harrison, William Harrison." They shook hands amicably, "Frank—"

"—Scanlon, District Attorney." Harrison supplied knowingly, "I recognized you right off—voted for you last time, too."

"Oh. …'ppreciate it."

"…do you know, uh, what…?" He gestured to the horizon.

Scanlon flicked the buildup of ash off, swirling the butt in a flair of light blue smoke, "Not yet." he said in an unintentionally hard voice. "Working on it."

"I suppose you couldn't really tell me one way or the other, anyway. Am I right?"

"Close to."

Harrison took another two purposeful puffs before flicking the butt to the ground, stubbing it out, "Look, uh, maybe it's not my place for this, but…well, I was just down in Chinatown getting lunch when it went hell." He explained, "I parked my car where I always do so I can walk, like my wife tells me to." He shrugged, " …I didn't expect to get caught up in something like this, ever. Crazily enough, I'm not bitter or angry; just grateful to be alive. Whatever the hell this was, whoever the hell did it…I'm blaming them for what they've done, and nobody else." He half-smiled, "…hope you get my drift, Counselor."

The DA looked this stranger over, feeling the first lift of gloom since losing track of Britt, "Thank you." He whispered meaningfully.

Harrison fished his pack from his breast pocket to press it into the DA's hand. 'Keep it, you're gonna need it more than I do. Besides, my wife would kill me." His ironic grin prompted one of Scanlon's own.

When he had gone, Scanlon tossed the gifted pack back to himself with a small chuckle. He stubbed his own butt under toe; one last look to the horizon. The smoke was now drifting to cover them. He covered his mouth, turned to go…and on the dropping of his gaze, he caught the shine of auburn from the back of the crowd. He peered over and around careening heads and necks for a better look. The tangled mat of strawberry covered features, but the dirty tatters of skirt and blouse, the tall lithe form…shoes missing but leggedness unaffected. Minus the cast on their arm, the bandaged cuts and scrapes, the sooty grayness: "…Ms. Case…"

He hurriedly side stepped the rustling crowd, excusing himself reflexively as he was bumped. He couldn't take his eyes off this unknown woman, hoping and pleading mentally with her to turn. He shuffled closer, maneuvering as he could until he was nearly on top of her. Still she wouldn't turn, hawkishly focused on the distant disaster.

"Casey!"

Like his stomach did in turn, she spun hard about, shocked and thoroughly overcome to hear the name. Her effervescent eyes welled up, streaking clean a dusty face. She tried for excitement, she tried for exuberance, she tried for a laugh of pure happiness, but all she accomplished was a sobbing crumpling into his arms, "Frank…!"

Thank God…! His embrace lifted her off the ground. He held her as the other fathers and brothers and mothers and sisters he seen this day hold their recovered loved ones. It was futile and starved. The last thing in the world they could believe in…and hadn't, except beyond some crumb of hope. "Thank God…" He whispered, glasses fogged, but damn it all, what did he care? If she was alive, then…?! He sighed deeply, fought that tidal wave by focusing on what he had, not on what he didn't have.

His fingers soothingly combed through knotty strands of hair, "It's okay…it's okay." His voice grew stronger, "You cry, alright? Cry as much as you want. Get it all out! …I'm here, I've got you."

The pretenses and falsehoods of before were burning with the Daily Sentinel; in the ashes of Chinatown. It was change of the headiest kind. A protective switch flipped with a palpable swoosh through his bloodstream: This girl was family. Better than kin, better than the memories of his own.

Because this one had been forged.

The fire in the eye of the Dragon was one kind: powerful and hot. It whipped smoke and ash to blind, and hazarded an explosive pull, but it was not the same. The fires that had forged them had fanned out long ago, leaving behind a trail of love and loyalty in the face of uncertain future.

His reckoning dawned.

I'll be whoever I have to be to keep my family safe.

Now Scanlon understood.

His hold around her shivering form doubled. "I've got you." he repeated softly, turning her away from the drifting smog, away from the horizon and its smudged skyline. Away from before and all the mistakes made. Away from kidding themselves they weren't in too deep. And back into the light of the truth:

Nothing would ever be the same again.