Hey, it's a new chapter! Vince gets hit with a clu-by-four.
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Chapter Seven: Like a Bullet from a Gun
Vince paced around his lair, studying some papers as he chewed on the end of a pencil. There was something too…familiar about this. It bothered him that a serial killing would be familiar. (He had enough trouble on his plate with Chess, thanks.) But…
The vigilante sighed and flopped down on the tatty yellow couch next to Orwell's bank of computers. The blogger had set up another row of monitors and an honest-to-god portable server after seeing Vince's set-up. Judging by the swearing he'd heard, she hadn't been all too impressed with his two monitors and single tower.
But he was off topic. The whole case was shaping up like something he'd run with the Jackals… God, what was it, nearly thirteen years ago? Fifteen? However long it had been since that issue, he still remembered that it'd been his last mission.
Vince closed his eyes, willing the memories not to completely overwhelm him as he sank into them. This was just…a copycat…
- o – o -
Greene was on point, wielding his flamethrower like a bat out of hell. The dark smudges on his uniform weren't helping, nor were the black streaks he'd painted onto his face with pitch. (Vince would have thought that a pyromaniac would have known better than to use something flammable, but no one was going to say anything.)
Marty was busy making sure the rooms were clear and keeping radio contact with headquarters. If worse came to worst, he was under orders to call in an air strike with enough firepower to send this area—and everything around it for the next fifty miles in every direction—back to the Cretaceous Period. Lofgren was keeping an eye on him, because it wouldn't do to have their XO getting capped by some Jihadi with more balls than brains.
Vince was keeping pace with Hanson and Hartman, following close behind Greene. Anyone who got through the wall of fire that Greene was cheerfully laying down got shot. It was merciful. If Vince had been anyone else at that moment, he would have felt remorse; but he wasn't, and there wasn't time for it…
The howl of a dying man only made them go faster. If another soldier died, they'd burn the fucker who'd been killing them.
There was a feral grin on Captain Faraday's face as he gave a low, animalistic laugh under his breath. He didn't need to look or listen to know that he'd been copied by his men.
The Jackals were hunting.
- o – o -
Vince shot upright, the same animal-like laugh dying on his lips. There was no way this case was connected to a dead mission from Iraq. Hell, he and his men had made sure the reports on how the operation had gone down were as vague as possible. High command had understood, and swept the whole thing under the rug. As far as Vince knew, all copies of the reports had been erased and removed from existence.
Besides, this couldn't be connected. Al-Amman hadn't left any notes on his work, or his methods, or his goals. Hell, no one was really sure if Doctor Psycho even had a goal when he'd tortured over twenty-six American soldiers and their allies to death.
Al-Amman was dead. Vince and Marty had made sure of that. Every Jackal had six full clips left. They'd emptied the magazines and their reserves into that fucker's chest until it was so much raw meat and vapor. Greene had set what was left on fire; and, just to be absolutely sure, Marty had called in their bombing run to level the area. (Given the ghost stories that had risen about the doctor, Vince was surprised none of them had thought to bring garlic, just in case he was a vampire and could have survived that.)
This was just fucked up. Vince stretched out on the sofa and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was pretty sure he was forgetting something, but he could remember that later. He had a little over four hours until his next patrol, and hadn't been sleeping very much since the whole affair started. The vigilante rolled over on his side and fell asleep, visions of a burning, barely-recognizable corpse dancing behind his eyelids.
It was not an easy sleep.
- o – o -
"So…this is Vince?"
Vince heard the conversation vaguely, like it was distorted through water. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and deep, wondering who the hell had broken into his cave. He heard some boot heels clicking on the cement, and then the tell-tale scent of passion fruit and coffee met his nose. Orwell… But why the hell wouldn't she know his name?
"Yeah. Let me go wake him up, alright?" Orwell didn't sound too happy about something. The boot heels clicked over to the couch, and the passion fruit scent got stronger. The blogger was probably standing over him.
"He's kinda cute, in a scruffy way." Someone bent over Vince, and the vigilante wrinkled his nose as something brushed against his face. "Good morning, sunshine. Care to join the living?" A cup of coffee was wafted under his nose, and Vince gave up pretending to be asleep.
He regretted it almost immediately.
A very tan young man with electric blue hair was staring down at him, holding two cups of coffee. If Vince could picture him with acid pink corn rows, he'd be a dead ringer for…
"Vince, this is Anarchy. He's going to be helping out."
Orwell looked uncomfortable, but Vince couldn't blame her. Anarchy didn't exactly seem like a good, wholesome individual—well, not from the whole hacker-and-vigilantism angle, anyways. Something about him was setting off alarm bells.
"Hi Vince," Anarchy smiled. "We're going to be working this thing together."
Vince nodded warily and accepted the coffee from the hacker.
"What can you tell me about Al-Amman and the Jackals?"
And promptly began choking on it.
- o – o -
It had taken over four hours, but Vince had eventually told Anarchy and Orwell the story behind Al-Amman and the nature of his…experiments. His suspicions regarding the case were duly noted. After another hour of being pumped for details, Vince couldn't take it anymore.
"I'm going out," he said. He was out of the cave before either hacker could stop him. Vince pulled his mask on and did something that he hadn't done for nearly three months: He went to visit his family.
Trip was in the kitchen with his mother and a stranger when he arrived at the apartment. They were eating dinner, and Trip appeared to be talking about baseball with the stranger. Vince bit the side of his hand to keep from sobbing out loud. He'd always hoped that Dana would wait for him, but…
He was being replaced already. And now, telling Dana that he was alive seemed like the wrong thing to do entirely. Vince stood up and swore under his breath as the fire escape creaked loudly under his weight.
"Cape?" Dana was at the window in a second, looking out at him. Vince sighed and waved, a sheepish smile on his face. The stranger—shit, was that Kirchner?—and Trip were standing behind her. Trip looked happy to see him, while Kirchner just looked wary.
"Hello Mrs. Faraday," Vince rasped, dropping into what he mentally dubbed "hero voice". "I didn't want to interrupt…" He gestured behind her to his son and the interloper. "I'll just—" But before he could leave, Dana had grabbed hold of his elbow.
"Nonsense," she said firmly. "You're going to come in, and have some coffee. And," his wife added in a dark undertone, so low only Vince could hear, "You're going to explain to my son exactly why you haven't been to see him in nearly a month. Don't. Argue."
There was no arguing with Dana when she was in that kind of mood. Vince sent a mental prayer to whatever deity wasn't using him as a chewtoy and clambered in through the open window.
Trip and Kirchner were sitting on the couch. Trip was telling the lawyer about all the adventures the Cape had had, although Vince suspected his son was embellishing them with adventures from the comics. (As far as he knew, he hadn't met an arsonist yet, or a whackjob who thought alligators made good pets and/or weapons.)
"Hello Trip," Vince said cautiously, still using his raspy hero voice. "Sorry I haven't been around." Trip was off the couch in a second, and knocking all the air out of his hero's lungs another second later as he enveloped the man in a bone-crushing hug.
"You came back," Trip mumbled. "I thought you were dead like the others." And in that second, Vince realized just who had found the bodies. The vigilante did the only thing he could, and picked his son up. A somewhat wistful smile crossed his face for a few brief seconds as he held Trip against his chest, mimicking the same actions that he and Dana had used to get him to sleep when he'd been much younger.
It still worked, and soon Trip was deep asleep. Vince felt Jack's eyes on him and looked at the man, shrugging. The vigilante hoped to god that Trip had been telling Jack all the stories about how he—the Cape—had lost his family. Hopefully the lawyer would draw the wrong conclusions and deduce that he'd lost his own son at some point. Because blowing his cover right now would get him killed.
Dana stepped back into the living room, carrying a tray with fresh mugs of coffee for the adults, as well as what looked like a plate of dinner. She shot a look at the vigilante in her living room as she set the tray down, and passed a mug to Jack, taking one for herself.
"So, Cape…" Dana said uncomfortably, sitting down on the couch. "Umm… This is Jack. He used to be one of my professors at university. Criminal law," she added. Vince set Trip down on one of the unoccupied easy chairs and pulled the throw blanket over the sleeping ten-year-old before taking the other unoccupied chair. Dana was sitting next to Jack on the sofa, curled up against him.
Vince tried not to feel jealous as he smiled at Jack. "I'm the Cape, I'm a vigilante… And now I feel like I'm at AlAnon," he added under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. Jack must have heard him, because the lawyer was grinning into his mug of coffee. He whispered something to Dana, and Vince had to resist the urge to beat the man who was talking to his wife. Blowing his cover at this point would have Dana beating him to death with the tray or her coffee mug.
"Have you had anything to eat today?" Dana asked, gesturing to the plate of food. "I don't know how much like the comics you actually are, but I don't think vigilantism would leave much time for getting any sort of food…" She trailed off, blushing. Dana had a tendency to start babbling when she was nervous; thankfully, it only started when she was in the company of friends.
Vince's stomach growled, answering that question. He vaguely remembered eating a granola bar that morning, but… Dana pressed the plate of food—macaroni, chicken, and fruit—into his hands and gave him a fork. Her smile indicated that he should dig in.
If Vince hadn't known his wife better (and hadn't known about her secret love of DC comics and Superman's dual identity) he would have suspected she was trying to collect saliva for a DNA test to prove who he was. As if he didn't have enough problems already…
After he was finished eating, Dana started in on the harder questions.
"Why haven't you visited for almost a month? And why are you avoiding us?"
Vince swallowed. This wasn't going to end well…
- o – o -
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