The offices of New World Weekly were on the second floor of what had until a couple of years ago been a residential apartment building full of dozens of studios, each one completely indistinguishable from the next; uniformly square, identical utilitarian furniture, and the same institutional grey throughout. The buildings' previous owner had done quite well with short-term residents, mostly businessmen-and-women in Seattle on contracts spanning a few months who couldn't afford to stay in hotels for their stay and found the dull, filing-cabinet layout of the building slightly more appealing than the average roadside motel. When that owner had been indicted on multiple counts of fraud and racketeering connected to the remains of the old mob, this and two other similar buildings had been his only remaining assets once his bank accounts had frozen. Desperate need for both an excellent attorney and someone to keep him safe from his former associates had forced him to sell the property for bargain-basement prices, and Deborah Litvack had secured the second floor of this particular building, and like those who had taken up the other floors, had quickly worked to make it look like something other than a high-end prison.
Having begun her own career in journalism as a photographer thinking about no more than keeping a leaky roof above her head, Litvack had taken pity on Sketchy when he first arrived at New World Weekly looking for a job, and decided to give him a chance. After he'd emerged from the sewers one day raving about the amazing shots he had of government suits chasing a mutant, she'd come close the breaking his camera over his head when he revealed nothing more than a bunch of exposed film. His next excursion into Seattle's sewer system had been even more embarrassing; the day the Fisher girl was 'kidnapped' he'd crawled out of a manhole towards the end of the day with nothing but a pair of black eyes, having had the crap beaten out of him twice by nobody he got a look at. She'd wanted to strangle him that day.
Now she thought she might have to kiss him.
"An Eyes Only informant gave you this?"
Sketchy nodded numbly, standing in front her desk - she had not asked him to sit down - trying not to look as nervous as he felt, and failing miserably. His excitement at the prospect of the story had ebbed slightly upon being told by his supervisor to bring it straight to Litvack, whom he knew was by no means fond of him and had been considering cutting the very thin thread connecting him to her magazine.
"Any of it true?"
"You'd have to ask my source," Sketchy told her, shrugging. "But even I dunno who he is," he added.
Litvack looked up at him and grinned cheekily. For a woman well into her forties, she did a great impression of a little girl sneaking her hand into the cookie jar. "Logan Cale?" she enquired innocently, as if plucking the name out of thin air.
Taking advantage of the silence as Sketchy just stood there with his jaw hanging loose, she opened the top drawer in her desk and pulled out a thin folder, which she opened on the first page. "Arrested in '15 for taking part in subversive, possibly terrorist-related activities, specifically writing and circulating articles which promoted a call to arms against the government. Known associates include Nathan Herrero, who was presumed dead until two years ago, then died for real.
"Herrero was arrested with him that day. Cale got out the same day, Herrero spent six months behind bars before his very clever lawyer could do anything for him. Must be great to come from a family like that," she mused. "My family's always had a ton of cash, but we still never had that kind of influence. Arrested as a suspected terrorist then released the same day because his uncle asked nicely.
"According to police surveillance, Cale got smart and stopped with the articles around the time Herrero disappeared. Then a little while after that, Eyes Only shows up." She plucked two photos from the file. One was the Eyes Only logo; the other, an enlargement of what looked like a passport photo of Logan. "Pretty close, wouldn't you say?" Litvack was clearly enjoying this.
"Eyes Only rails against government corruption like nobody has for decades, and does some pretty good work dealing with less sophisticated scum, too. Then all of sudden a new subject starts dominating his airtime. Manticore. Before anyone else had even heard of them, Eyes Only was at war with them. Then when all the freaks got out, he was pretty much their only defender. And he disappeared the same night as Logan Cale. The great man cuts short one of his broadcasts, then twenty minutes later somebody kicks in Cale's door and turn his apartment into Baghdad. Neither of them are heard from again until the Jam Pony siege, when Logan Cale rushes in like a knight in shining armour to defend the transgenics. He hasn't been seen since they all got back into Terminal City that night, but now Eyes Only is back on the scene, and where did his comeback broadcast originate from? Terminal City."
Litvack picked up the photos, placed them back in the file and closed it. "I take it you've heard enough," she queried of the still-dumbstruck Sketchy. "I was going to run this story in a couple of weeks once I had the last few details worked out, but I think you might have brought me something a little more interesting. So here's the deal. One thing pretty much everybody knows about Eyes Only is that he's always been straight with people in his broadcasts. I can't think of a single thing he's ever said that can be called a lie in retrospect. He's got quite a lot of integrity for a guy who hides behind his computer."
She started flicking through the folder Sketchy had presented her with either ten minutes or half a lifetime ago. Sketchy wasn't quite sure. "I'm willing to take him on his word with all this stuff, bizarre as it seems. I thought he was nuts or lying or both when he started talking about Manticore. Even when we were printing stuff about it at first I thought it was a load of crap. Who knew it would turn out to be the first true story we'd ever cover?
"So I'll leave this by the wayside for now. As long as Mr Cale is willing to be so nice to us, I can afford to extend him the courtesy of not blowing his whole life wide open." Her eyes narrowing slightly, she waited for Sketchy to find his voice again.
"Ummm… are you… blackmailing me?" he mumbled stupidly.
"No, jackass. I'm blackmailing him! I'm promoting you. You're gonna write this story. Since he's your source, I figure I may as well give you something to do around here for a change."
His mind torn between delight at the prospect of writing an article, worry at the realization he'd barely written anything longer than his name since school, and horror over what might befall Logan, Sketchy's expression was among the oddest Litvack had ever seen. "W-well, I don't know if I'm up for that. I'm a photographer. I take pictures!"
"I've yet to see one. I'll pair you with a writer. He can help you out. This is a one-time offer. I'm happy to just take the information, but this could be good for you if you can pull your head out of your ass long enough to pick up a pen. Yes or no?"
"Yes," he breathed excitedly.
Grinning again, Litvack picked up her phone. "Ben, can you come in here for a minute?"
A few seconds later, a tall brown-haired man a dull grey suit entered. He completely ignored Sketchy's presence. "What do you need?" he asked.
"We got a new story. Big one. Bigger than Manticore if we can ever back it up. Theodore here brought us the info from an Eyes Only informant. He'll be writing it. He's going to need your help with it. He's never written before, but fair's fair, he did bring us the story in the first place." She turned back to Sketchy. "This is Ben Mitchell. He hasn't been with us very long, but he's been writing for years. He won't let you screw up too badly."
"What's the story?" Mitchell enquired.
"A precursor to Manticore, apparently thousands of years old, starting with selective breeding programs among cultures the world over. We don't have all the information yet, but it seems to lead right up to the project in Wyoming, and some secret cult of psychotic snake-worshippers. I know how that sounds, but consider the source. According to Theodore's source, Eyes Only himself wanted us to have this, so we're not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."
"No, ma'am." Mitchell responded. He seemed to have trouble getting the words out. Acknowledging Sketchy for the first time, he briefly looked him over, then extended a hand, shaking the younger man's hand forcefully. "Looking forward to working with you.
"Me too." Sketchy forced a smile, feeling pretty unnerved at the sight of Mitchell, though not knowing why.
However portentous this meeting seemed to Sketchy, that was nothing to how Mitchell felt.
"What is that, haddock?" Logan pointed towards the small collection of quite skinny fish at the back of the stall.
"Cod," the man in the apron told him. "Last of it we'll be seeing for a while, too. Been declared endangered again. Most of the North Atlantic's off-limits at this point."
Logan wondered briefly if the stall owner really cared why the new restriction was being imposed, or was just annoyed that it would affect his supplies. The North Atlantic Ocean was one of the few places left on the whole planet where pollution levels were still low enough that the fish caught there could even be declared safe to eat.
"I'll take five pounds of it."
"Party?" the stall owner enquired.
Logan shrugged. "No, but like you said, who knows when we'll see any again?" As he handed over the money, a flash on the TV screen behind the vendor caught his attention. It was a feed from one of the countless news cameras around Terminal City, and the banner at the bottom of the screen read "Terminal City Bomb Attack."
"Hey, could you turn that up, please?" He asked as he pulled out his cell phone to dial Max's number.
"…ess than two minutes ago. At this point the only casualty we can confirm is the bomber himself, blown up by his own device. Two transgenics appear to have been caught in the blast, but their status remains unknown."
"Dammit!" Logan hung up and tried again. The only response he received was an automated message informing him that Max's phone was either switched off or outside of any area with coverage.
"It seems we have an angle from another camera just sent to us by one of our affiliates. As you can see from here, neither transgenic seems to be moving. One of those lifting the injured onto a stretcher is the same lizard-man who was involved in the Jam Pony siege just weeks ago."
Giving up on Max's cell, Logan dialled the phone in Dix's security station.
"Both injured parties seem to be in very bad shape. As you can see from here, the young man is covered head-to-toe in blood; though chances are most of that blood is the bombers'." The newscaster paused briefly, apparently receiving information through his earpiece. "This just in," he announced in a graver tone than before. "We have confirmed the identities of the victims of the attack, and their status." Logan leaned forward and turned the volume up further himself. The vendor made no objection, his own attention fixed upon the broadcast.
"The male victim has been identified by eye-witnesses as being an X-5 who was involved in the Jam Pony siege a few weeks ago. He was, in fact an employee of Jam Pony at the time, whose employee record bears the name Alec Cora. Also, we have confirmed this with our chopper which has just arrived, and, it seems from the word of one of the transgenics at the scene."
Logan, the ringing phone still sounding in his ear, paled and felt his legs buckle as the image switched from the newscaster to a birds-eye view of the scene.
First he saw Mole at the fence talking to a pair of Guardsmen, apparently unconcerned at the cameras gathered around listening to every word. The massive crowd gathered around were apparently so shocked at what they had just witnessed that nobody thought to so much as throw a bottle over the fence at him. Then Logan's eyes fell upon the pair of stretchers being carried away into Terminal City. Neither of those on the stretchers were moving. "The second victim," the newscaster continued, "is Max Guevara, the woman who has of late become the public face of the denizens of Terminal City. We have just been informed that neither victim survived the blast."