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Brood of a New Age

85

Travis Marshall, the lead reporter at WRVN, had had better times.

When he became anchor of Nightwatch, he thought it was a stepping stone from his journalism career to wherever he wanted to go. New York was not Wyoming where potholes were reported or that teenagers had knocked over a cow. There was always something to report. But in New York, even the extraordinary was kind of quickly ... worn out. Nightwatch was still doing well but there were only so and so many stories you could do about gargoyles and everything related to them before it came down to; "Change the channel, honey- I want to see Letterman."

The media landscape was changing. It was changing a little too fast for Marshall and the younger, more ruthless reporters who brutally shoved their mics in everyone's faces and didn't take no for an answer became more. Heck, his PR advisor (a girl fresh out of college who was more into her computer than talking to real people) even said in the future news would be made and seen on the internet. Normal persons, every person who produced "content" and put it on the Internet would become a newspeaker - or something like that. What did that mean? How? Was news anchor or television host a dying profession? Was he himself a dinosaur before he turned fifty?

That's why Travis jumped at the chance to join a Quarrymen patrol when his program director told him about it - to report directly from the source, as he had done so often in the past and which had given him his prestigious position in the New York media landscape. A report with its finger on the pulse of time, or maybe even a documentary that could be edited out of it - that could be interesting. At least it was a change that made the heart of the long-serving reporter beat faster again. After all, WRVN had lost a lot of prestige since it had come out that Jon Canmore (the third person responsible for the bombing of the Gargoyles' lair above the police station), who had gone into hiding, had been working for them for weeks as a new face. As one of those fresh, unscrupulous faces that Travis dreaded because they admired him and treated him with respect, but whether consciously or unconsciously, their very existence was sawing at his chair. How unscrupulous Canmore had really been, one had seen.

Castaway's respectful request directly to Marshall himself for reportage was too important to pass up. Castaway came to Travis - though he didn't admit it - as a supplicant. The request was to give his organization, which had lost many members of its civilian base after the Gargoyle Goliath hearing and the semi-positive court decision, a new lease on life. That Marshall needed this chance, just like Castaway, he did not have to let on. His boss had not coerced him, had even said he was welcome to turn down the opportunity, in which case they would send another reporter with them.

Another reporter?!

He meant a YOUNGER, hungrier one. Despite Nightwatch- Travis Marshall was not an old pogue who was content to do a late night show until no one who wasn't insomniac would remember him. Late night shows that only reacted to happenings didn't win journalism awards, they didn't keep his name in mind. He was only in his mid-forties, and he wasn't going to be one of those newsmen who got replaced by a busty blonde behind the microphone at the appearance of the first gray temple, just because they wanted a fresher face. HE was WRVN. He could do it. It was a risk to accompany an only semi-official vigilante force on unauthorized air vehicles to "hunt monsters." A risk to his career if nothing happened. A risk to his life if something did happen. He didn't know what he was more afraid of.

He cleared his throat loudly as his sound technician and technical director tampered with him.

"Susan, your hands are like ice," Marshall said to push his own discomfort at the whole thing to the back of his mind. The sound tech with the nose piercing smiled.

"Sorry, Travis. But if Stuart and I have to stay in the van, we want you to be as well equipped as you can be." The sound as she tore off the armor tape and used it to secure the small box to his stomach, just above his waistband, made him shudder.

"That's bound to hurt when you tear that off later."

"That's likely," Susan said indifferently, tearing off another silver piece of duct tape and taping it over his ribs and belly. And then another, and another - until the whole right side of his stomach was completely taped up, hair and all. As if Susan thought he would be subjected to such turbulence on one of those sky sleds that he would lose it. The way he was decked out now, it would take a surgeon to scrape the tape off his body. Hopefully they'd be done soon - the reporter couldn't tuck his paunch in for much longer.

Stuart tapped the tiny mic he'd placed on Marshall's sternum with the same tape - again without removing the hair there first. This was going to hurt. But he was willing to suffer for his work. To suffer for the truth. He wouldn't do Castaway the favor of writing an unquestioningly positive report or having his crew cut the article to make something look rosy where it wasn't true. There were questions about the Quarrymen. Where did their funding come from? Where did they get their weapons, vehicles and hammers? They had at least one helicopter! Apart from the thorny question of whether it was still acceptable to hunt beings night after night who were obviously capable of higher thought and consciousness. If they were all like Goliath, of course. None of them had spoken in front in front of a camera yet.

Marshal buttoned up his shirt after getting permission from the in-house WRVN tech-geeks, careful to avoid touching the wireless mic. He tucked in his white shirt. No tie, no blazer. Not for this mission. Quite unhappy with this Castaway requirement, he walked over to the dark tunic that had been laid out for him. With sewn-in Kevla vest - how gruesome. It showed no Quarrymen logo but was otherwise indistinguishable from their "uniforms." So was the hood. He didn't like that at all. But he put on both. The fabric was light and airier than it looked - which was good for the summer months - but he immediately felt grossed out and wasn't sure what bothered him. Didn't they say when you're in Rome do as the Romans do?

As he turned, Susan looked at him disapprovingly - a look usually only women can bring to perfection. Stuart, on the other hand, seemed neutral at the sight.

"Okay- say something, Mister Marshal, so we can test the sound quality despite the clothes," he instructed.

"Test test, one two three, this is Travis Marshal with an exclusive for WRVN and all of America-", Travis spoke with normal posture and normal volume. That's how they had instructed him. That's how he would have done it with a microphone in front of him. Susan put her hand to one of her bulky headphones with which she kept in contact with her colleague in the newest van of the broadcasting station. This other person seemed to acknowledge something, because she nodded with satisfaction, then walked to the other end of the room and said rather quietly.

"Hello, this is Susan Pazakios, technical director at WRVN and I don't like the fact that our jobs are almost redundant with this new tech stuff but I'm glad not to have to go on this suicidal sky sled. Over and out."

Where Stuart grinned broadly as the grumpy mid-twenties tech geek came back to them, Marshall felt transfixed by her gaze. He didn't assume it was just her chagrin at not being allowed to hold a boom pole with the mic (for which she was overqualified as a technical director for exterior shots anyway). She was probably a Gargoyle sympathizer. Though not so radical as to risk her job for it.

Again, someone spoke to Susan through her headset.

"Okay," she commented, "Outside recordings are crystal clear to hear, too. Hoybes thinks even whispering could be picked up by the device."

"And if the clothes over it crackle or rub against the mic. What about blowing wind?" the reporter asked incredulously.

"Automatically being filtered out," she said tersely, watching Stuart, who had now taken a pair of glasses from a case, cleaned it with an eyeglass cleaning cloth, and put them on the reporter despite the hood. They were not ordinary glasses. Despite the fabric, they fit his face like diving goggles, had no dioptres in the lenses but a tiny built-in camera. Travis should have felt extremely cool to be given a toy by his bosses (or Castaway's donors) that might as well have been from a James Bond movie, but all he felt was the growing tension.

"How's the sight?" asked Stuart, and Marshal looked around.

"Very good. But what I see isn't that important. Even if the lenses get smudged or dirty, the camera keeps working because it's in the right endpiece of the rim."

"Exactly," Stuart said.

"But how does it work? Without wires."

"Yeah- that cost the bosses big time!" commented Stuart, grinning broadly at the new toys. "We're the first to be able to work with it. Similar products won't go on sale for years, and it doesn't have an official name yet. They are thinking of something like wallbreaker, or airsignals or bluetooth after that king that united Denmark and Norway. Stupid, isn't it?-"

"Brand new technology would have done, Stuart," Susan trimmed her colleague as she pressed an unobtrusive skin-colored ear stud into Travis' ear. It was a good fit, and he could still hear everything. "The earbuds, glasses and mic have charging contacts that allow you to magnetically connect and charge them to charging pins in a case. One charge lasts six hours at room temperature for everything. The headphones work as a bridge of radio signals between the box and the goggles." Stuart chirped on briskly with an wary look at his grumpy colleague. "Most important is this box, Mister Marshall." Stuart tapped the palm-sized device now hidden under shirt and unmarked Quarrymen tunic. "Inside are powerful lithium-ion batteries and a memory chip similar to what's in a computer disk. Without that box, no signal gets to the broadcast van, and no sound or image is received and stored.

"But if the box does that why this - uhh memory disk?"

"In the unlikely event that the thirty layers of duct tape don't hold up on your skin-," Susan said sullenly, "-and the device moves more than three feet away from you and/or the batteries are inoperable, there are internal batteries and this internal memory that can then record another half hour of sound and picture. Is that enough explanation?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, thank you."

He was almost glad under Susann's sharp gaze when there was a knock at the door.

Without waiting for an answer, Jon Castaway stepped into the room that had been made available to them.

And like every time Travis had interviewed him so far, or even seen him on TV (like in court), it almost slapped him in the face. He didn't know for the life of him WHAT hit him in the face, but there was something about Jon Castaway's demeanor, his gestures, his eyes that seemed so familiar. And it wasn't because of his sporadic contact over the last few months. It was as if there was another person in Castaway who knew Travis and vice versa. Not an intimate, familiar knowing like an old school friend. He just didn't know what it was, couldn't put his finger on it, because nothing about the ostensibly well-mannered if passionately gargoyle-hating man triggered any memories in him other than those of Jon Castaway. And Travis could remember faces. He was a reporter - that was part of his job. So why, right now, did even this handshake feel like one Travis had known before Castaway had first crossed his path? He had to stop himself from wiping his hand on his tunic immediately after the touch.

"Travis! It's so wonderful that you and your team were able to make it happen," Castaway purred in that engaging, confident politician's voice that only someone who had spent years practicing for public appearances and speaking in front of large audiences could have.

No shyness or conceit of position toward anyone but a friendliness that was empathetic, at times even too familiar, which instantly either flustered the other person, pushed them into humble even friendliness, or (in the case of naive, gullible people) created a need to put themselves in the speaker's hands. That's how good cult leaders spoke, Travis thought for a second and immediately tried to bury the thought. He didn't want to condemn Castaway without solid evidence to the contrary - that would be as unprofessional as putting him on a pedestal, as he probably would have liked.

"I'm pleased to join you tonight as well, Mister Castaway," he said.

"Please, call me Jon. Between us, we can be on a first-name basis."

"Between you and me. All right."

"The uniform looks fantastic on you. Sure you don't want the pants to go with it?

"My suit pants are a similar shade. It'll work," Travis said, trying hard not to read Castaway's (Jon's) gaze negatively.

The Quarrymen leader leaned toward him a bit with a good-natured look and smiled. "You're already wearing this marvel of technology?"

Travis slowly pulled the hood off his head. Susan and Stuart behind Castaway gave thumbs up as a sign that such acts were okay and did not interfere with sound or vision.

He felt the need to straighten his glasses but they sat immovably due to the seal technology and ergonomic fit for all eye sockets.

"Ohhh, see-through rims. They really do look a lot like regular glasses, even without the hood. Fabulous. Come on. Let's introduce you to your teammates."

Jon gave Susan and Stuart another friendly nod, not noticing Susan roll her eyes as he turned away. Travis followed him, hood in hand. Together they walked down a barren hallway. They were in a former firehouse, one of several "control centers" in Manhattan under Castaway's command. They passed a room full of radio equipment where three guys sat in front of computers and monitors and seemed to be watching something. On a screen in the brightest evening sun, the Eyrie building and its crowning castle could be seen in the distance, but so far away that it would be a matter of luck and the right jump and flight angle to catch a Gargoyle. Travis did not know if the rumors that gargoyles lived at David Xanatos' castle were true. No reporter and no court of law, not even that snarky Yale had tried to pin it on the lawsuit-happy billionaire yet.

They stepped through a door onto a gallery and Travis stood next to Jon, who looked down the hall with fatherly pride at those working below. Conversations, the running of an engine, whirring sounds of a machine could be heard. No longer were there fire trucks, but two vans. And four of those futuristic sky sleds. Two of them had people working on them, and under one of the vans there were legs as if someone was working on the van. At the side were tables on which some Quarrymen hammers were lying, which were obviously also being tested for suitability and safety. Heck - one of the guys who were already wearing hoods because maybe they had all been briefed that a reporter was coming and because they didn't want to be recognized was even carrying a clipboard like he was checking off a list. Even though everything here was staged, Travis hoped his camera was already running. This all-around shot was a strangely beautiful image - aesthetically.

"And there won't be any problems with the Quarrymen, which you're sending me along with? Even if they don't know I'm filming everything in real time?" inquired Travis again, and Castaway waved it off with a wolfish grin.

"My generals are well aware of their responsibilities to "new recruits," aspirants and visitors. And you'll see how positively our patrols are received by the good citizens of New York. Most of them love us. They know what good we do for them."

"So faux-pax like those of the past few months are a thing of the past?"

A barely perceptible eye twitch from Castaway.

"My people go through training constantly. I know that especially young recruits are jumpy and hungry for adventure and make mistakes - as we all do. But this is not about adventure. That's what I try to instill in all my fellow soldiers."

"You're using military jargon."

"Only to make it clear that we are at war."

"Your critics, like Lenox Mac Duff, might argue that by using military jargon, you are elevating your mission to the level of war," he said.

Castaway turned around, his hands behind his back but his gaze so staring that no hands were needed to appear threatening.

"These demons raise the conflict to such a level. The gargoyle Goliath confirmed it. They are not native here. They came to America - uninvited across our threshold to spread terror and fear. And though they call this their protectorate, the good citizens of New York are afraid. The gargoyles are turning this into a war. Just three weeks ago, six of my best, most decent people were -."

Jon gritted his teeth and looked sideways, eyes closed, as if to remind himself not to say too much. Whatever had happened to six of Castaway's people was probably still under investigation. Otherwise, Castaway would complain about it much more volubly. Instead, he turned back around and gestured for him to follow down the iron staircase.

"Once you can talk openly about it without worrying about restrictions, you know I'll have a sympathetic ear," Travis ventured in professional fraternity.

"Thank you very much, Travis. I appreciate any gesture of open-mindedness toward our mission for peace and security. So there you have it, the good titbit."

"I prefer Fran, but thank you, Jon," said the person who just rose from a crouching position and gave Travis a hundred thousand dollar smile.

"I actually meant the sky sled Travis will be riding with you tonight, Frani," said Jon, squeezing the shoulder of the beautiful woman with dark long hair in her late thirties.

"It's an honor, please call me Fran."

"Fine," Travis said smiling as broadly as she did.

The woman giggled and lied completely unabashedly that she'd never heard the joke before. They didn't shake hands because Fran was wiping hers on a rag. As she did so, Travis noticed that her skin showed no chapping, no blemishes, no oil smudges as if she had just expertly tampered with or even checked that machine. Instead, she wore rings and flawless fingernails. Unmissable ... Travis was thrown together with the most charming quarry girl Castaway could find. These hands had never tampered with a sky sled or any oily machine, perhaps she had never held a Quarrymen hammer for any length of time.

"Fran. Is it all right with you that I accompany you tonight?"

Again the hundred thousand dollar smile. "But of course, Mister Marshall. It's high time the media stopped giving us a wide berth. This is important."

"What's so important about being out patrolling at night?"

The smile widened. Almost a snarl, a flare of fanaticism in the blue eyes. Involuntarily sharper tone as of people who have had to explain themselves too often to supposedly dumber persons.

"It's important to contain the gargoyle infestation. To put an end to these unholy beasts before they try to do the same to us."

"How do you know they're really unholy beasts?"

"Jon`s - Mister Castaway`s ancestor Angus Canmore has already told of their true nature in his tome. Did you know he plans to publish that soon - along with his own experiences?"

Travis couldn't help a smile from creasing his sympathetic expression. "Canmore as in ... the Canmores responsible for the bombing of the police headquarters and the destruction of St. Damien Cathedral, right?"

Jon Castaway put a hand on the shoulder of Fran, who was about to open her mouth to answer something caustic.

"Distant kin to me. Very distant. Everyone has a few black sheep in their family tree. Stray lambs who lost sight of the real goal - to protect the people from the gargoyles - and are now rightfully in prison. They deserve this. They are traitors of our cause."

"But unholy beasts they still are," Fran insisted, reaching into the neckline of her tunic. She pulled out a silver chain with a cross on it. "They are unholy. They could only enter the ground of St. Damien because that was not a holy ground right then due to the renovation works. They have no religion, no faith. Holy water burns them and they writhe in pain when they hear a prayer. This Goliath could talk - well, so can parrots - but they hiss and growl, wearing only rags. They have no culture, no human manners. They petrify because they can't stand the sun and they eat human flesh when they have the chance. That's the only reason they're in this big city - thousands of opportunities to prey unseen."

"So you think ... Goliath's claims that they are protecting the people of this city by preventing crime is ... just an alibi?"

At last Fran (not-Fine) smiled again.

"Exactly. Now you've got it."

"I do," Travis said slowly. He had no interest in the woman he had to spend hours with on a sky sled hundreds of feet in the air holding a major grudge against him.

"I'll do anything that will make my family and me sleep better," she said, putting a hand on his upper arm. "After this night, you will see more clearly and hopefully reproduce it in your report. You may also quote me: I am not afraid of these beasts. I am a nurse in a private clinic and have often seen wounds made by these monsters. On wrongdoers, to be sure, to maintain their alibi, but still." She and Castaway smiled broadly at each other knowing they were fighting for the right cause. Messiah and disciple of the first hour.

Castaway put a hand on his shoulder as if he himself was just a tiny step away from following.

"We ... are going to heal this world, Mister Marshall. We will open everyone's eyes to how it really is. No temporary lenient court sentence will be able to protect these things then."

Travis nodded, feeling nauseous for some reason. He blamed it on his nervousness.

Fran (Fine) ... you get it?- A The Nanny joke. Not a good one - never was. Shouldn't be.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.