Well, there's another chapter to add to this mindscrew of a story.
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Chapter two: Watch This City Burn
Peter Fleming was not a man to sit idly by while a serial killer was running loose in his city. Contrary to rumors (many of them started by the delightfully infuriating blogger Orwell), he did have some concept of morals. He just chose not to use them on a day-to-day basis.
That being said, a serial killer was rather worrisome. He'd spent too many years with Chess as a presence in the back of his mind to be anything less than agitated if there were murders happening in the same vicinity. That all of the dead men had been identified as off-duty ARK soldiers only served to feed the fires of paranoia that much more. Without Chess, he was vulnerable—and there was every good chance this psycho (and he applied the term rather liberally, just to make his case) would come after him next.
Damn everything, why had he gotten rid of Chess? For that matter, why had Chess left so easily? Peter would have expected horrible nightmares (those had happened before, although one of them had been pleasant) or mind- and soul-crushing migraines. How Chess had learned to produce those…
But he was off-topic. He had a press conference to give, a public to reassure, and resources to assign to this case. For that matter, he needed to make sure the Faraday lawyer knew ARK would be footing the bill for her son's trauma counseling and a body guard—just in case. (Fleming wasn't stupid enough to believe that this madman wouldn't go after the boy who'd uncovered the body dump. It would be incredibly bad press if Trip—who the hell named their child Trip?—were to snuff it.)
The billionaire checked his tie one last time to make sure it was straight and headed for his private elevator. His bodyguards fell in step behind him, silent hulking pillars of muscle. Time to go to work.
- o – o -
When Vince caught wind of Fleming's latest press conference, he almost brushed it off as inconsequential in the scheme of ruining the billionaire's life. Orwell's insistence that he pay attention almost grabbed his notice. What really grabbed his attention, however, was an article in the morning edition of the Herald. An unnamed child had discovered the body dump of a serial killer.
Vince's first reaction to the hysteria generated by the newest nutcase in Palm City was "What, have they already forgotten about Chess?" His partner, the investigative blogger Orwell, threw a pen at his head in reply. The press conference and the front page of the morning Herald was only the tip of the iceberg, as Vince soon discovered.
Shortly after nine pm, as he was preparing to go out on patrol, the gruesome crime scene photos began making their rounds of the evening news. If it hadn't been for what he'd seen (and what he'd done) in the Middle East years ago, Vince would have lost the contents of his stomach. Orwell was not so lucky, and barely made it to the trashcan.
By the time the vigilante left on patrol, Orwell was chewing on a massive stick of cinnamon-flavored gum and waiting for a pot of mint tea to finish brewing.
Now, nearly an hour later, Vince was perched on a rooftop as he kept an eye on the city. Ever since Raoul had been arrested three weeks ago, the gang war had quieted down some. Not enough to make him or ARK happy, but it had died down. The violence had, thankfully, begun to restrict itself to inter-gang relations. He had yet to encounter any civilian casualties; and thank heaven for small favors.
The vigilante sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was going to have to step up his patrols anyways—the gang war had, apparently, been the warm-up act for a serial killer. As he leapt off the roof, Vince had to wonder what poor kid had discovered the bodies. Whoever they were… Well, it wasn't going to be an easy month or seven for them. God help the poor kid if the press discovered who they were…
- o – o -
Vince perched on the edge of another rooftop sometime around midnight, keeping an eye on something entirely different. Orwell had reported that the gangs had slunk into hiding for the night—odd for a weekend—and the city was quiet. Aside from the occasional ARK patrol car passing by, the city was quiet. Peaceful, even…
Which was why he was now perched on the roof of an apartment building to observe his wife in her apartment. Even though it was after midnight, she was up and washing the dishes. She seemed distracted nonetheless, and kept glancing over her shoulder towards the living room. It was almost as if she was waiting for Trip to wander in.
Vince sighed. He should have been in there with her, not perched out here on a cold roof. Still, he couldn't complain. His family was still around for him to worry about; his namesake in the comics hadn't been so lucky.
The vigilante started when he heard a wail coming through the open window. His wife blanched and ran from the kitchen. Vince tensed, listening for anything that might tell him what was going on—like a break-in. He looked at his son's window, which was closed. Dana must have convinced him to keep it locked. Good idea—the weather was getting a bit colder.
The light in the living room flicked on, and Vince could—if he strained just a little—see part way into the room. Dana was holding Trip to her chest, and looked as if she was comforting him. Vince felt his gut churn, feeling guilty as he watched the scene. Dana had mentioned that Trip was having nightmares…
After ten minutes, the light turned off. A minute later, Dana was clambering out the window and onto the fire escape. She climbed up the ladder and sat on the edge of the roof, apparently waiting for someone. Vince, still feeling guilty, vanished in a puff of smoke. He couldn't face her right now—he'd come too far to give everything away.
There was a killer to catch.
- o – o -
-Vince, you there?-
Vince started awake as his headset buzzed in his ear. The vigilante barely remembered crawling back into his hideout around six in the morning, nursing some new bruises. Unfortunately for his ribs and shoulders, the serial killer hadn't scared everyone underground. The drug runners, under new leadership according to an informant, were still out in force. Pity. He'd liked that pair of boots…
The vigilante grunted something into the mic that might have been an affirmative and stumbled out of bed. It was too damn early for anyone sensible to be awake. Also, he was turning into a serious night owl. How the hell was Orwell so awake?
-Good morning, Vince,- Orwell said, sounding disgustingly chipper. –I have some new leads regarding the serial killer. And Vince…?- Vince was automatically awake at the worried tone in his partner's voice.
"What, Orwell?" he asked, sliding off his bed. He landed on the cold cement floor, hissing as his feet came in contact with the uncarpeted floor.
-You're not going to like some of this.- Vince had little time to ponder what his partner meant by that situation, before she arrived at his cave, bearing coffee and an armload of print-outs. Vince took one look at the first page and blanched.
She was right.
- o – o -
Dana Faraday was a phone call away from going on her own murderous rampage. Somehow, someone had found out that her son had found the bodies. Now, reporters were calling every five seconds, begging for an interview. (To be honest, some of the offers were getting downright creative.)
She shot a dark look at the ARK flunky who was seated in her living room, cleaning a pistol. The smell of gun oil brought back some old memories—unpleasant side-effects and all. Honestly, though, she'd take the smell of gun oil over the reporters who'd tried to break in. So far, the mountain of muscle sitting on her sofa had shot two of them.
He'd claimed they were warning shots. If they were, Dana seriously worried about the times when he'd have to shoot to kill. She also had to wonder what the legal bill to keep him out of prison was. At least one of the reporters was going to be in the hospital for the foreseeable future.
Dana sighed and flopped down on the armchair she'd dragged in weeks ago, for no reason she could remember. Still, it was comfortable and a good place to think. The bodyguard looked up once, expression unreadable behind his dark sunglasses. Dana half-wondered if bodyguards were legally obligated to wear mirrored sunglasses, or if it was just a general fashion convention they picked up at bodyguard academy… Probably the latter.
The phone rang again, and Dana groaned a few choice curses under her breath. There was a sharp crack, and the phone stopped. She risked a look at the handset and sighed. Great. Now she had to buy a new phone…
Well, life couldn't get much worse than this, could it?
- o – o -
By evening, Vince had failed to turn up any leads. Johnny the Bull was close-mouthed and acting more like a mouse than his namesake. Kazzie, the temporary head of Scales' crew, was being equally closemouthed. (He, however, had opted to throw Vince off the docks, rather than tell him to leave.) If anyone knew anything about the serial killer or his whereabouts, they were too scared to talk. Considering the condition the bodies had been in, Vince couldn't really blame them.
The killer, on the other hand, was going to die slowly. Vince was a father first and foremost. He'd taken up the mantle of the Cape to send a message to his son, and now he had to follow through with that promise. Didn't mean he couldn't have some fun like he'd used to first…
Something about the case niggled at the back of his mind. The niggling little idea got stronger when he thought about his old team, but it was probably just coincidence. Thinking about the Jackals always unsettled him—and he'd been their commanding officer.
Vince sighed and headed off for another hotspot. If anyone could dig up information, it'd be Orwell. Although the fact that she'd mentioned anarchy worried him a little. He had enough problems with the gang war and the serial killer! (Fine. If he didn't catch the killer, all hell would break loose. Fair enough, but did it have to happen now?)
He passed by two men changing a tire and chatting about work, and continued onwards. Jimmy Greggs was always good for obscure information.
- o – o -
Philips was more than ready to take his two weeks of vacation by the time he clocked off shift. If he hadn't put in for the vacation time almost a month ago, he probably wouldn't have gotten it. As it was, he had to be on-call for the entire time. You know, just in case every single on-duty officer dropped dead of the plague or something.
Either way, he was off-shift and going to dinner. Kia had been more than pleasantly surprised when he told her he was going to meet her at a nice restaurant. The reservations had been in place for nearly three weeks. If he missed his one-year anniversary with his girlfriend, someone was going to die.
The security officer clocked out and headed for the sidewalk. His truck was a lost cause, and it was too expensive to get a new one at this point. (Seriously, he was going to hurt the Cape for destroying his baby.) Still, the walk would be worth it. It was a nice night, after all.
Philips pulled his hoodie on over the dress shirt Kia had insisted he wear to dinner and set off for the bus stop. He had an hour before the reservation was called, and the restaurant was only a ten-minute bus ride from the flower shop he had plans to stop at. (He was seriously sucking up, not that Kia would mind. It kept things running smoothly in their apartment.)
"Excuse me."
Philips stopped, mentally cursing as his pleasant day dreams were derailed. He looked at the speaker and rolled his eyes, an easy grin appearing on his face. The head of the psychiatrists employed by ARK was sitting next to his car, attempting to change a tire.
"Hey doc," Philips replied, walking back to the parked car. "Need some help?"
The doctor smiled, wiping his hands on a rag. "I'm afraid I'm not quite as mechanically gifted as I'd like to be," he replied, standing up. Philips looked at the attempt that had been made and winced. He wasn't quite up-to-date on all of the Italian cars, but this was a mess. Sheesh.
"I can get it done in about five minutes," Philips said, rolling his sleeves up. Alright, it was a mess, but it wasn't that hard to correct. Just need a few bolts tightened, and…
"Going somewhere special?" the doctor asked, startling Philips.
He laughed, putting the wrench back in the trunk. "Yeah," he replied, wiping his hands clean of grease. "Dinner with my girlfriend. Why?"
"Curiosity," the older man replied.
Philips turned his back and was prepared to walk away when something heavy hit him between the shoulder blades. He twisted around, trying to grab his pistol. The crowbar to the side of the head was a bit of overkill, honestly.
He was unconscious five seconds later. A minute after that, and the only sign he'd been there was a small patch of blood on the sidewalk, which would be washed away half an hour later by a late summer rainstorm.
- o – o -
Well shit. So, what did you guys think? Good? Bad? Now worried about Philips? Drop a line and let me know!