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RECOIL
The news reporter's voice on the television rings out across the small, dingy apartment.
"It has been two months since the tragic structural defect that led to the collapse of the skyscraper in the financial district. The citizens of Avalon mourn the loss of nearly 12 people, although we thank the miracle that the building happened to be vacant at the time."
Van is lying, slouched, on a faded, green armchair. His eyes are wide and bloodshot as he watches the report. He groans as he massages his ribs, as the bruised muscles strain to move and heal. With subtle effort, he leans forward, his oblique muscles once again protesting in pain, and his hand drops to the handle of the chair. It seems worn, and most likely non-functional, and the fabric is barely holding together. There are dozens of rips and tears along the sides and foot rest. Van is wearing a pitted and torn undershirt to match his couch. He leans over to a nearby table, and grabs an open beer bottle off of it, leaving a new, pristine condensation ring to match several others. He takes a long gulp of the beer, and leans back in the chair, staring at the rotating fan. The bullet necklace is lying in between the crevices of his pectoral muscles, but even the amulet seems worn out and defeated.
His apartment is a mess. Clothes, beer containers of various brands, shapes, and sizes litter the floor. Take out boxes from seemingly hundreds of different restaurants are scattered about.
A loud drip breaks Van out of his stupor, and with a grunt, and seemingly Herculean effort, gets out of his chair. It groans in protest. He tosses the beer bottle across the room. It rebounds off of a wall, and into a garbage can, clanking with the other bottles within. He walks over to the sink and turns the handle to stop the dripping, but the handle creaks, immobile. Van's eyes narrow, and he puts more effort into the torque. With a loud "SNAP", the handle rips off of the sink. Van screams in frustration.
"Screw it, I like the noise anyway!" he yells at the sink. "Yeah, you heard me. I ENJOY IT! DRIP DRIP DRIP! MY FAVORITE SONG! Stupid sink and its stupid…water."
He opens the fridge, grabs another bottle, and walks over to the armchair again. Right as he plops down into the plump cushion, a creaking mechanical noise interrupts his peace from above. The fan halts to a stop, a small whisper of smoke spurting out from the mechanism within. Van's shoulders drop as he looks at it.
"Alright, got the hint" he yells at seemingly no one. "I need some air anyway."
He throws open his window. The latch misses, and snaps off, the window shutting violently. Van grunts in frustration, and holds open the window as he wiggles his body out. He very ungracefully tumbles out of the window.
"Silver Bullet!" he screams whilst tumbling in midair.
With a pop, a streak of silver rockets across the sky, leaving a contrail in its wake.
Miles away, a military compound is seemingly in the middle of nowhere. There are miles of desert in three directions around it, with its back to a mountainside. The shadows from the sun behind the mountaintop cover the base in a dense shade that make it barely visible even to those who know it's there. The compound is painted in desert camouflage colors, so that it blends in with the mountain. There are several hundred feet of runways in all directions from the base, and a direct railway that seems to lead straight into the city, even though the city seems far enough away to be a mirage. On a small, inlaid plaque built into the wall reads the word "S.A.N.C.t.U.M."
Within the base, dozens of soldiers are moving around within the grey, metallic hallways, calmly, but with purpose. Their boots echo down each of the halls. There are endless rooms within, each with several monitors, keeping track of global events, talks, and domestic issues.
A stocky, older man is wandering the halls. He is in a wrinkled, blue uniform, which also bears the SANCtUM insignia next to a dark nametag which reads "Sprigs". He has a thick, silver Van Gogh style moustache and beard, and wispy peppered hair still clings to his receding hairline. On his left wrist, he wears a pristine golden watch, the reflective material shining brightly off of the fluorescent lightning. In contrast, his right wrist bears a worn, bronze sundial.
Sprigs is walking down a long hallway with nearly no doors except for one, in the exact middle of the hallway. He turns a right corner, and steps into the enormous main control room. The entire wall ahead of him bears hundreds of monitors. Many of them are showing disasters around the world. At a quick glance, he reads "Freak Dust Storm in Middle East" and "Surprise Flooding in Thailand" on the screens before scanning his head around the room. He notices a blonde woman with incredible posture at one of the control panels. She has two needles through the bun in her hair, along with what appear to be two sewing needles she is wearing as earrings. She is talking calmly into the microphone ahead of her, her British accent cutting through the noise in the room.
"Deacon, I am your handler for this operation." She says. Her voice is soft, but has a sharp edge to it. "Please listen to my suggestions."
Without turning around, she addresses the man behind her.
"Hello Lieutenant" she says, pleasantly.
"Good evening, Urchin." He replies. "It really is terrifying sometimes, that ability of yours." He chuckles to himself. "Has there been any progress?"
She smiles. "It's just years of practice, sir." She replies. "And none, unfortunately. The lead was a dead end. Samael is still nowhere to be found."
Another familiar voice chimes in from the side of the room, as John walks over, leaning against a support pillar. His dark brown hair is combed over. He is dressed very casually, in a tight, black T-shirt, and jeans. On his right hand is a black, fingerless glove, with a brightly polished, metallic star object inlaid into the material.
"And the supposed sighting of Basilisk from an anonymous source?" asks John. "He's been underground for years, with only rumors of his appearance. Why now? And also, who was able to recognize him enough for a tip off?"
"He is a snake in the grass." Urchin replies. "Unable to be seen until he strikes. IF the sighting is legitimate, that means it was intentional. And the source did not recognize him. We were simply given a report that mentioned "a young, Latino man in his teens with a snake tattoo on his arm." Those are as common as a woman getting a butterfly tattoo."
Johns eyes narrow.
"Maybe…" he replies.
Sprigs interjects.
"What of the civilian amulet wielder, the Silver Bullet?" Sprigs asks. "Has he made any move for us to consider him a threat?"
"We have located him," Urchin replies. "However, he appears to be in a stupor after his incident. He is in a near catatonic state of depression, barely even functional. His bank account is laughably low, and the fact that he still affords rent is a miracle. Confronting him in this state would only shatter his fragile mental state. All three of us have made that mistake before, only to lose a potential ally forever, let's not make that error again."
"I agree" replies John.
"Should he show any sign of hostile intent" Sprigs commands. "I don't care how nice he seems. We don't need any more enemies. Remove him, permanently."
John and Urchin reply simultaneously.
"Yes sir."
Sprigs continues. "For all we know, he could be doing something brilliant and malicious as we speak!"
Back in Avalon, Bullet is swerving through the air, narrowly dodging an airborne pigeon. He is very clearly hammered.
"I…I didn't mean…" he hiccups. "It. Ugh, that tasted awful. I didn't mean to kill them." He screams, then grabs his head. "I can't do this. More beer. Beer is good. Beer."
He lands in an alley behind the "S" bar very ungracefully. The thrusters shove any paper objects away with a blast of air, and his boots make a loud, metallic "THUD" upon landing, sending rats scattering off in all directions.
"Silver Bullet" he says.
The armor glows, and wisps of silvery light rush towards a spot on his chest. Where the Bullet once stood, now is a very drunk and disheveled Van, clutching his amulet. He stumbles out the front of the bar. The street lamp outside burns his eyes, so Van raises his hand to block it. As he stumbles down the street, his vision becomes hazy, and he begins to mumble to himself.
"I didn't…this isn't happening…what the hell…"
A couple is walking towards him, their arms locked, and they seem to be laughing. Van's eyes widen, and he flattens himself against the wall, frantically staring at them. The man covers the woman, and they hastily walk past the lunatic. Van looks right at another man walking by, then across the street at a woman checking the time. His eyes are darting around, scanning every passing person on the darkened street. A man walks by, something gold around his neck glinting off of the ambient street light. Van leaps at him, grabbing the man by the shirt.
"Let me go you nutjob!" screams the man.
"What is that on your neck!?" screams Van, "Where did you get it!? Does it talk to you!? What's your amulet name!?"
The man shoves Van hard, sending the drunken man sprawling to the floor. He straightens the golden cross necklace hanging around his neck back underneath his collar, then continues walking hastily away.
"Assholes out tonight," scoffs the man.
Van slowly gets to his feet, leaning against a nearby brick wall for support. He rubs his shoulder where it impacted the floor.
"This isn't real, this isn't real, THIS ISN'T REAL!" screams Van.
A woman walking with her young daughter grasping her hand walks by. The little girl runs over to Van, but the woman yanks on her arm. The girl is holding a teddy bear. Van looks at it and screams.
"DOES THE BEAR TALK TO YOU!?"
The little girl laughs. "He's funny mommy."
"Don't talk to him," says the mother, "he's sick, leave him alone."
Van sits into a ball and begins to shake.
The next morning, Van wakes up, groaning. His head is splitting from the enormous hangover. His shoulder is throbbing from the impact, a large bruise covering the area. He rolls over, attempting to stand, but his feet slip on some unknown liquid on the floor and he crashes onto the wood paneling, the blanket sliding off of the bed on top of him.
"Ow," he says monotonously.
A hand slowly rises from behind the bedside table, grabbing the bottle of Alka Seltzer tablets sitting beside the lamp. From his position on the floor, he grabs a nearby glass of half-finished water, drops the tablets in, then chugs the glass. He then pulls the blankets up higher, falling asleep where he fell.
Several hours later, Van walks out the front door to his apartment. The brown t-shirt he's wearing is heavily wrinkled, and the worn pants have several holes in them, however, his hair is perfectly spiked. He is walking slowly, his head aimed down at the ground, dragging his feet.
"I'm not a bad person…"
As he is walking, something falling catches his eye, and before he can even look, his hand is already extended, grabbing the bag mid-fall. The elderly woman smiles at him.
"Thank you young man," she says, "so quick!"
"No problem," replies Van, "can I help you with anything else?"
"No, I'm fine," she replies.
"Seriously, anything? Directions? I can carry those bags. Let me help you!"
The woman hastily gets into her car and speeds off.
"Fine! I hope the next one drops on your foot!" screams Van after the fleeting car. "Fuck that, I did nothing wrong. NOTHING! You all hear me!?"
Everyone around Van takes a step away, continuing wherever they were headed.
"Don't need to deal with this bullshit. I'm gonna pound all those shiny assholes. Wait…"
Back at SANCtUM, Sprigs is in an isolated room with the lights off, typing into a computer. He sticks a flash drive into the USB port, dragging a folder across the monitor, onto the drive. He removes the drive, tucking it into his pants pocket, then throws a jacket over his uniform, and hastily leaves. He walks into the garage, past John's bike, into a polished, black Aston Martin.
The car speeds off into the night, the road mostly empty. He opens the window, taking a deep breath of the air.
The car rolls into a deserted train station parking lot, and Sprigs gets out, looking over his shoulders. He has parked in the area outside of the streetlamps. He carefully walks around the side of the building, and inserts a key into a locked door labeled "Security Only: Do Not Enter." The key turns, and the door creaks open. Sprigs steps inside.
The train station appears to be vacant, aside from various creatures, picking at the remains of trash left behind. Sprigs walks across the vacated floor, over to the opposite wall, where a row of lockers are sitting. Sprigs opens one of the lockers and places the flash drive inside. He quietly shuts the door, then hastily walks back outside, into his car, speeding off into the night.
From the trees behind where his car was parked, blue eyes flash, and a lock of blonde hair drops down across Urchin's face. She blows it back into place.