AUTHOR: IMPORTANT! Okay, before reading the chapter below, I wish to say that... there's a scene in it that will look like M.J. has gained some super powers and has become a Gary Stu. I assure you, without wanting to spoil too much of the story but not wanting people to stop reading because they hate Gary Stus, these powers of his are only temporary and that it will be logically explained in the next chapter how he could do these things.
Also, the scene I mentioned was inspired after reading a review by Conrack. I deeply apologize if you are offended, but I just had to write it after it appeared inside my head. I have no excuse. Hope you'll still like Redemption.
Okay, that's all. Oh yeah, special thanks to Reinbeauchaser and Dierdre for beta-ing this chapter. Those two chicks rock!
WARNING: Dark, blood, swearing.
T-M-N-T T-M-N-T
T-M-N-T T-M-N-T
Two days later...
Detective Soap finished his fourth cigarette and lit another, nervously looking around the parking garage where he stood. His right shoe impatiently tapped against the concrete floor as he glanced at his watch, his temples glowing with sweat despite the cool night air.
Suddenly, a large black truck appeared and slowly drove towards the fat detective. Soap flipped the cigarette away and then cursed, partially because of their late arrival, as well as for throwing away a newly lit cigarette. The truck's doors opened and Hun stepped out, sporting his trademark frown.
"Detective Soap," he said in a slightly polite tone, although his face suggested other emotions, "I was told you had something for me?"
"Oh, I got something alright!" shouted Detective Soap as he marched up to Hun, trying to look as imposing as possible, although the flopping of his belly ruined it. "I got the Chief right up my ass, demanding to know where the hell I got that damn shotgun! When you gave me that thing, you said nothing about what kind of hell it would bring!"
"I could care less about your problems, Detective. Do you have something for me or not?"
"Yeah, I was given a... an item and was told to use my connections. I even know a guy over at forensics that owed me one, but what I thought would be a simple, quiet thing that would slide under the radar as usual, turns out to be this year's shit-bomb! I'm gonna lose my badge because of that damn thing! If this gets any uglier, I might even be looking at jail time!" the detective spat, while Hun's frown deepened.
"What are you talking about?" growled the giant.
"That damn gun killed a cop! Officer Jameson, nearly five months ago! A family man and well liked to boot! The investigation to find the son of a bitch responsible has been deader than Al Capone. Until now."
If the detective expected sympathy from Hun, he was barking up the wrong tree. "So the cops are hunting him down?"
"Well, there were two prints found, so I guess they'll give him the benefit of the doubt. But if he resists when they find him… well, let's just say that no one will be losing any sleep over it."
"So you just called me here to listen to your own troubles and self-pity, and not to tell me something that would make it worthwhile having you under our pay?"
Detective Soap blinked and looked like he was about to yell again, but a deep growl from Hun made him look like he had wet himself instead. Straightening his dirty jacket in an effort to compose himself, Soap spoke again, this time without the superior attitude, "...yeah, I got something. Like I said, there were two sets of prints on that damn thing. Ran a check on 'em, and it turns out last week one of 'em jumped out a window, the autopsy revealing a high level of drugs in his system. As for the other one, hell, even I think its weird he's in the system. Nearly six years ago he an' some of his homies got picked up 'cause some nervous shopkeeper called the cops.
"The cops probably decided to give the kids a bit of a scare and ran them through the system, before releasing them the next day. Spoke to the Gang Unit before the shotgun's history was discovered, and it turns out the kid used to belong to some gang you guys wiped out last year or so. The real funny part in all this, hell, the only damn thing that's funny, is that those smartasses at the Gang Unit could only tell me one thing' bout that kid."
By now, Soap had a smug look on his face, as if thinking he actually knew something that Hun wanted to know and was savoring the moment. Or maybe the fat man was just so stupid he actually thought he had done a good job.
"The suspense is killing me, detective."
"M.J."
"...what?"
"That's what the kid went by. But they didn't know if that's the initials of his real name or a street name. He wasn't even a soldier, but just some driver. As for his rank, they speculated it was slightly below middle."
The detective went silent and for a while Hun waited, until an angry glint flared in his eyes. "That's all you were able to find?"
"Of course not! I intended to dig around some more, but then some bitch at Forensics ran some tests on the damn thing, found out it killed a cop and the shit hit the fan! I was, however, able to come up with one name, supposedly some weapons dealer. They once monitored him, hoping to catch the guy, but wasted nearly two months for nothing. Either he's as clever as they come, or he's just small time. But his mechanic shop used to be in that kid's gang, so that would be the place where I'd look next." Detective Soap reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Hun reached for it, but the detective quickly snatched it back.
"Not so fast, tough guy. I'm in a load of shit thanks to you. Sure, I've always escaped just under the radar, but now it looks like I've been hiding the gun that killed a cop, and it's only a matter of time before Internal Affairs starts snooping around. I want your boss to do something about this, or -"
"Or what?" Hun sneered, not worried in the least.
"...or things are gonna get ugly. See, I've also been collecting things over the years, stuff that's gonna cost you and your gang big time. Unless you get this heat off my ass, this city's police force will come down so hard on you, you'd think God himself just took a dump on you."
Hun's answer to the detective was a punch in the face.
Four days later...
The cold water continued poring out of the sink and onto his badly burned palm. It still throbbed in pain, still felt like it was on fire, but M.J. barely noticed. He just stood there next to the sink in the small restroom, his temple pressed against the cool mirror with his face covered in ash, his clothes stinking.
Another wave of pain radiated from his hand, and it felt like somebody was slowly tearing away what was left of the skin.
Again, M.J. barely noticed.
His mind was miles away, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and he found himself drifting back to a time a few hours previous.
Three hours ago...
M.J. groaned beneath the bed sheet as he slowly woke up again. He had been sleeping and waking up several times all day, although his eyes hurt less now. Somehow he knew he wouldn't be sleeping again for a while, so he groggily got to his feet, almost losing his balance as he walked out of his bedroom.
The entire apartment was pitch-black. All the lights were off and drapes covered the windows, where not a ray of sunlight managed to penetrate. Not really thinking, M.J. walked up to one of the drapes, pulling it away so the-
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" M.J. howled in agony, feeling like someone had just rammed a blowtorch into his eyes. He dropped down to the floor, covering his eyes with one hand, while the other clumsily pulled the drapes back, blocking the sun's light. He then just lay on the floor, waiting for the pain to go away.
Oh man... the hell just happened?
Slowly, M.J. got back to his feet and wobbly made his way towards the bathroom. He almost turned on the lights by reflex, but stopped himself at the last moment. Standing in front of the sink with his head bowed, he took a few deep breaths, looked up and-
"FUCK!"
And screamed in total shock.
He jumped away from the mirror, nearly falling back on the floor as his heart raced inside his chest. After a couple of minutes, he finally dared to step closer to the mirror, utterly failing to comprehend what the hell he was seeing in his own reflection.
...m-my eyes, t-they're... blue... they're... glowing fucking blue...
Indeed, that was what M.J. was seeing. His eyes, which used to be green, were now nearly glowing bright blue.
Oh man, what... what... the hell is, I mean, what... wh-what is wh-wh-what's, what's going on?
M.J. breathed heavily, finally looking away from his reflection. A couple of seconds later he looked again. His eyes were still glowing blue.
This... this just... just shouldn't be happening! It's not supposed to! It can't!
Panic gripped him. Was this it? Had he finally lost it? He knew it was only a matter of time before he lost one of the two, his life or his mind. From the looks of things, it was the latter.
As M.J. stood there, breathing hard, he finally noticed how heavy the air was in his apartment.
I...I gotta get outta here. Need fresh air to clear my... head...
The irony was not lost on him.
Dressed in his old sneakers, dark-blue pants, a brown shirt with his favorite gray jacket, and a pair of sunglasses that had seen better days, M.J. locked his apartment doors and headed towards the stairs. Halfway there, however, M.J. suddenly paused and looked back towards his doors.
...wait a minute... it was totally dark in there, and yet... I could still somehow... see my room as if the lights were on?
...nah, I must be remembering it wrongly...
Shrugging, M.J. headed towards the stairs.
Franco's Diner, one hour later...
"Hey, M.J., the usual?" M.J.'s response was a wide yawn. "Okay, number twelve with a double espresso it is." With a smile, an old lady in her late fifties with a nametag saying Kate wrote down the order and then went off towards the kitchen.
Franco's Diner looked like one of those places you'd see in That 70's Show. It had opened nearly twenty years ago, and the only times it got real busy was during the lunch and dinner hours. The time was now 4:56PM, the last rush hour gone, and less than a handful of customers still remained inside.
M.J. brought a hand to his sunglasses to take them off, but remembered at the last second why he was wearing them in the first place. At that moment his imagination decided to take over, and a thought suddenly came that made him wonder if the...condition of his eyes could be seen through the sunglasses. What if some religious nutcase saw his eyes glow, grabbed his bible, and started chanting some prayers in Latin while tossing holy water at him? And what if half of the Purple Dragon gang just happened to pass by, hear the noise and decide to enter the place to investigate, followed by a certain angry mutated red-bandana wearing turtle, this time holding a rusty chain saw in each hand, screaming for blood and revenge?
Y-yeah, w-well let 'em come! I'm ready for...
His heart skipped a beat when M.J. realized he had forgotten to grab a gun when he left his apartment. It was the first time in nearly seven months that he was outside and unarmed, and the realization left him feeling oddly...naked.
Great, things just keep getting better and better.
Kate came back with the espresso, and M.J. gave her a polite smile. "Can I have today's newspaper, please?"
"Sure thing," Kate replied, apparently awfully cheerful today, and fetched the paper. "Here you go, hon. Enjoy."
"Thanks," The front page held nothing unusual, although a small article in the corner caught his eyes. Some Senator had been whining about how much violence cartoons had these days. He went on and on about what kind of effect it would have on kids to see such cartoon shows right after playing equally violent video games, and that those two combined was one of the main reasons why kids acted aggressively and started getting their hands on guns and shit.
Hey, if you wanna stop the death toll in this country, take on the NRA, you weak bastard.
Still engrossed in his thoughts, M.J.'s eyes fell upon the date of the paper, and in less than an hour he was rewarded with a third shock.
"What the?" he gasped out loud, making most of the customers look at him curiously. M.J. was too shocked to notice, however.
T-that can't be... no way it's the twenty-sixth today. M.J. looked at his watch, only to confirm that it was indeed the twenty-sixth. Then... I've been lying in bed for almost a week! That... that just can't be! I... what the hell is happening to me...
When Kate brought his order a few minutes later, he had lost his appetite.
With the sun slowly setting and the coldness of night coming early, M.J. zipped up his jacket as he made his way towards the nearest subway entrance. But just as he reached the street corner and caught sight of his destination, something occurred to him.
Oh, hell, wait a minute. The last time I used one of these I ended up in the sewers with the Dragons hot on my tail. For all I know, they're now keeping an eye on trains all across the city. …Well, okay, maybe not the entire city, but definitely on trains that are going in the general direction of the one I was on. And it's nearly a three hour walk to Emet's place, so...
M.J. spotted a cab.
Aw, hell, why not? Was bound to happen sooner or later.
After getting the driver's attention and climbing in, the cab drove off. Mere seconds later, a police car appeared at the other end of the street. It stopped in front of Franco's Diner, and two police officers walked in.
Fifty minutes later...
"Chicken-shit," M.J. mumbled as the cabby drove away.
Just because this 'hood has a bit of a rep about gangsters ruling it, doesn't give you the right to drop yer passengers off several blocks away from where they wanna go. Idiot.
Cursing some more under his breath, M.J. started walking towards Emet's garage.
Okay, Emet is gonna want to know why I'm wearing these damn sunglasses, so what the hell am I supposed to do? Just show him and hope he won't freak out and think I'm some kind of alien that's possessed M.J.'s body? Sure, Emet's an okay guy, for a mechanic who sells weapons as a side job, but he believes in all that conspiracy crap. The crazy stuff about Elvis being an alien who went home; Area 51; Kennedy's assassination preventing him from revealing the Illuninati's esitence to the world; government agencies building secret bases under the Hudson River blah, blah, blah...
Still, this is Emet, and it's always been nearly impossible to keep a secret from that guy. I also owe him a lot. After I got kicked out of the orphanage, he let me stay in his shop until I got my own small apartment in Grove's turf, he taught me how to drive, taught me how to take care of Leatherhead right after he hatched, and any one of a dozen other things.
Still, showing up with glowing eyes is gonna be... tough to explain to the old geezer, especially since I ain't got no clue what the hell is happening to me, either.
Maybe I could-
When M.J. stepped around the corner, the sight he saw made him freeze.
Just across the street was Emet's garage, and nearly half the place had been swallowed in fire. The flame was slowly making its way to the rest of the building, and its glow illuminated the street, yet there were no sounds of sirens, and no one was around save for M.J.
The brittle sound of breaking glass snapped M.J. from his frozen state. "E... EMET!"
M.J. charged towards the burning building. The front of the shop was where the fire was most fierce, so he quickly ran behind it, heading for the backdoor. Black smoke was billowing through a broken window next to the door, so M.J. used his right hand to pull his shirt up over his mouth, while his left reached out and gripped the door's handle tightly.
He didn't remember falling down, but all of a sudden he was on his back, seeing black smoke cloud the stars and listening to the sound of something howling. His throat hurt terribly for some reason, and it was long moment before he realized it was because he was the one who was howling. Howling in pain, although he didn't know why.
He had his right hand clutched tightly around his left wrist, and when he looked down, he suddenly understood… and wished he hadn't looked. Smoke was trickling from the palm of his left hand, burned skin slowly melting away to reveal cooked meat and veins, with a bit of bone.
M.J. realized he was still screaming, but didn't try to stop himself. His eyes went to the door's handle and saw it was glowing red-hot. Through the pain that rippled from his hand to the rest of his body, he dimly remembered seeing the handle before grabbing it, and a small thought that had assumed the handle's red color was just a reflection of the fire. Only now did he realize there was no fire here, only black smoke.
Blinking, he suddenly realized he was back on his feet and charging towards the door. The door was made out of metal, but the locks were showing signs of rust, and so it broke easily under M.J.'s charge. He landed heavily on the floor as a wave of smoke hurled through the new opening, and an instant later the door itself broke off its hinges and landed next to M.J. As he stood up, he glanced at it and saw that one of Emet's tools had been placed on the inside handle. He couldn't remember what the tool's name was, only that it was used to heat up metal to the point it could be bent. Someone had placed it there on purpose.
He didn't have any more time to dwell on such things, for the fire was slowly spreading everywhere. Smoke was filling up the room, and he had enough sense left in him to bend his knees as he walked, in an effort to reach clearer air.
Did he just yell for Emet, or was he still screaming? The pain in his left hand was immense, and it somehow affected his hearing, making it difficult to listen. It didn't seem to affect his eyes, however, for he saw more clearly than ever before in his life.
There on the floor, almost surrounded by flames, was Emet. He wasn't moving, but M.J. didn't take the time to yell his name or check for a heartbeat. He simply grabbed Emet's arms and dragged him outside.
His hand felt like it was on fire, as did his throat, and the pain made his voice raspy as he wheezed, "...Emet..."
M.J.'s eyes watered and his vision blurred as he got a closer look at him. The man's right eye was swollen shut, his nose looked broken, his clothes were torn and bloody, and around his neck was Stone's Purple Dragon amulet.
A pained grunt came from Emet's throat as his left eye slowly opened and rested on M.J. "...M.J... I feel like shit..." he whispered, coughing up blood.
"H-hey, d-don't you die on me, old man! Y-you're gonna be okay! You made it through 'nam, damnit, you can live through this!"
"...that... was my brother, you moron. How the hell do you think I started... the gun business?"
His voice trailed off as he descended into another coughing fit. M.J. tried to say something comforting, opening and closing his mouth, but words had failed him. Emet was in bad shape, and he didn't know what to do. His mind almost refused to accept that this was really happening, and seemed to cling to the hope that it was all just a bad dream.
But this was really happening. This was reality, and to many, reality was a total nightmare.
Emet coughed again, raggedly this time, as more blood frothed his lips. "G-goddamnit, kid... d-don't let... o-other people drown because of your hatred..."
With those enigmatic words, Emit took a deep breath and slowly let it out. His eyes slid half shut, as if he was about to take a nap.
"…E-Emet? ...EMET!"
It was no use. The life had left his eyes, and he was dead. M.J. had seen it enough times to know.
Too many damn times.
It was hard to think. His mind felt so... blurry.
He vaguely recalled leaving the restaurant after wrapping his burned hand with toilet paper. He had probably earned some odd stares as he left, and no doubt many thought he had been doing something else in there other than taking a piss.
Now he was walking down the dark streets of New York, and yet he didn't feel like he was actually doing so. It was more like... he was lying on a sofa and watching TV of someone else walking. He saw the familiar movement, and yet it didn't feel like it was him.
What he did feel was rage. Or at least, it was something similar to rage. The emotion he was feeling now was... cold. Not boiling hot like he was familiar with, but mind-numbingly cold. So cold, in fact, that he felt a shadowy sense of surprise he was able to move at all.
His legs didn't respond to him, but he nevertheless knew where they were headed. To his apartment, where his undamaged hand would get what little remained of M.J.'s arsenal, and where his legs would then walk towards the heart of the Purple Dragon's turf.
He knew that the Dragons expected his arrival. The place would be packed with every member the gang had, and they all would be waiting for him.
He was going to take them all out. Every last one of them.
The awareness of that triggered nothing. No dread. No shame. No guilt. No satisfaction.
Nothing.
Nothing but coldness.
Is this it? Is this what happens when a human has lost every piece of his soul, every last shred of humanity? Is it all replaced by this... coldness? Coldness that freezes everything inside, makes it difficult to even form a coherent thought, and forces the body to be driven by a primal urge to kill?
Emet was one of the few people who actually gave a damn about me. Never thought of him as a father, never even came close to that, but he was... someone who just... had always been there for me...
And now he is dead.
Dead like all the rest, taken by the Purple Dragons. But in this case, the blame lies on me and me alone. I was so caught up in my own self-pity, so hoping to die by another's hands, that I never thought someone else would pay. Well, now it's happened.
...I once heard that a man who has nothing to lose is more dangerous than a cornered, wounded animal.
I'm about to test that theory.
M.J. was now on the street where his apartment building resided. He walked up to the door, searched his pockets for the key, found it, pulled it out, inserted it into the lock and-
"Hands up!"
M.J. turned around, mildly surprised, and blinked when he saw three police officers aiming their guns at him. The one in the lead said something, but M.J. didn't listen, too busy wondering if the men were just figments of his imagination. The officer scowled at his lack of response, stepped forward and forcibly pushed M.J. around, slamming him against the door and beginning to search him.
The policemen were definitely real.
Beneath the cold inside him, an emotion of surprise and wonder stirred.
So I guess I was wrong when I thought the police weren't interested in some gangsters getting killed more than usual. Then again, the last time we spoke, Emet did say elections were next year.
...Emet...
Behind M.J., the police officer continued searching him, while one of the other two spoke on the radio.
No... It sure as hell ain't gonna end like this. I ain't gonna go to jail and end up being someone's bitch before the Dragons send someone to slit my throat in my sleep. I planned on taking them all out tonight, and I'm gonna stick to that plan.
No matter what.
The first time he had experienced it, it had been in his apartment as Casey was about to punch him. What triggered that had been anger.
The second time had been in the sewers, when one of those gray pajamas was about to cut his head off. That one had been activated by instinct.
Now it was triggered by pain. Only this time, it was done willingly.
The officer had finished searching M.J. and was reaching for his cuffs, when all of a sudden M.J. used the door he had been pressed against as leverage to hurl himself into the police officer. His left elbow rose up and hit the man's nose, and the force of it made the officer practically fly backwards, smashing into the man on the right.
M.J. bent his knees and turned to remaining man on the left, who had surprise written all over his face as he watched his compatriots collapse to the floor. When he turned back to focus on M.J., however, he had already leapt at the police officer. His left arm slammed into the side of the officer's arms, causing the gun to point somewhere else as it discharged, and his right hand curled into a fist an instant before he drove it into the man's groin.
As the policeman doubled over in pain and fell to the ground, M.J. glanced at the other two officers. The one with the broken nose was lying on top of the other, who was busily pushing him off while freeing his gun arm, his face twisted into an expression of bloody murder. Just as his arm was freed, M.J. leapt at him and kicked him in the head, blood spraying over broken skin as he fell unconscious on the ground.
A thought in the back of M.J.'s mind told him the moment had passed, and that he had to get away before the pain would-
"Don't move, asshole!"
Turning, he saw a fourth police officer across the street, whom had his gun aimed at M.J.
M.J. charged.
The police officer fired, and M.J. felt it activate again, this time by a mixture of pain and instinct.
It was almost like ice-skating on moving water, he realized. To have a vast emptiness beneath his feet, but instead of plunging into it and drowning in panic, he simply skated across the surface, almost gracefully avoiding changes in the waves that tried to plunge him into certain death.
Twisting his upper body to the right, he felt the bullet whiz by where his head had been an instant before, and he was halfway across the street when the police officer fired a second shot. He bent forward, the bullet almost caressing his back as it flew by.
He was almost on top of him when the officer fired a third shot, and this time he either couldn't or didn't dodge. The bullet went through his left shoulder in a bright spray of blood, but that didn't stop him from jumping up and kicking the officer in the chest with both feet, causing him to fly into the sale windows behind him.
M.J. landed hard on his back, but quickly regained his footing. Looking behind him, it seemed that none of the three downed police officers would be getting up any time soon. The shots had apparently drawn some attention, however, for people were peeking through doors and windows, while some brave/stupid souls actually went outside. M.J. needed to get out of here before more-
On the other side of the street, four police cars swerved into view, sirens blazing as a police helicopter flew above. Going that way was out of the question, so M.J. turned in the opposite direction, running into middle of the street…
And right into incoming traffic.
Cars careened out of the way, all honking like mad as M.J. jumped left and right to dodge the vehicles. One car turned into his path, but he managed to roll across the hood, almost losing his footing when he got back on the street. He kept on running, however, and an instant later a large truck honked, its big tires burning rubber as the driver hit the brakes. Just as it looked like it would slam into M.J., he threw himself to the ground, hugging the asphalt as the truck passed by over him. A second later, M.J. flipped back to his feet and resumed running like hell.
More sounds of crashes came from behind him, and it seemed like the police cars weren't able to follow him. But up ahead, two more police cars suddenly appeared, blocking the street.
M.J. didn't stop. As the officers inside started getting out of their cars, M.J. jumped onto the hood of one of the automobiles, vaulted to the roof and then… leapt.
What came next might have been sheer luck, or a second chance sent by God Himself, but at that precise moment a truck drove by, and M.J. landed on the roof. He almost fell off the edge, but managed to grab hold at the last second and steady himself. He glanced back at the cops, who just stood there and stared. For some reason, one of them seemed to be laughing.
Turning back to see what was ahead of him, M.J. momentarily froze. The truck was about to drive under a low-hanging bridge. So low, in fact, that even if M.J. flattened himself against the truck's roof, he would still get hit. The distance to impact was just a couple of feet away and rapidly coming closer.
With no other choice remaining, M.J. once again curled his legs beneath him and leapt.
The jump must have been twelve to thirteen feet high, but it was just enough to land on top of the bridge. M.J. stumbled forward, breathing hard and yet somehow still alive.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK
At that moment, M.J. realized four things.
One, this was no bridge for cars.
Two, it was for trains.
Three, a train was coming his way.
And four, he didn't have enough space to jump right or left to avoid it.
So he vaulted upwards, for the second time in less than five seconds. He managed to pull his knees up to his chest just as the train passed by below him, and for an honest second he thought he would just stay there, hanging in midair until it roared out of sight.
A second after that he landed on the train. The powerful vehicle was not moving at full speed, having just made a turn before crossing M.J.'s path, but he still slipped and nearly rolled off the roof. Through another act of serendipity, his right hand found a small maintenance handle to grab, which he then clung to for dear life as the train increased its speed.
Below, the police officers still had their mouths open, awestruck and incredulous of what they had just seen.
"...did... did he just..."
"Yeah... and I still don't believe it."