"Light all the fires, and see how they burn," The Angel of Vengeance stands atop a grimy roof, overlooking Cosmopolis at night. Beneath him, rivers of golden light flow through the developed grid of streets, dotted with motes of emerald, amber, and ruby. The chatter of a million voices rises up to meet him, a discordant choir filled with melodies of ambition, sorrow, and knowledge. He cannot explain it, but the choir speaks to him, and him alone, guiding him towards his destination.
"Light all the pyres, the judgment they earn," He turns away from the ledge, preparing to descend from this perch into the mire below. The Angel of Vengeance is seeped in it, caked in the filth, but he knows he is pure. An ember has touched his lips, sanctifying that which was unholy into righteousness. His boots splash in a puddle of rancid water, but he is undisturbed, striding down the darkened alleyway where the destitute and the forgotten dwell. Dressed in an oversized green poncho smeared with gutter grime, he does not draw their notice, because he is one of them.
Outside of the alleyway, in the middle of a large three-lane traffic circle, is a small park with the graffitied and patinated bronze statue of one of the city's founders riding a horse. Who he was matters little to the Angel of Vengeance, but this is a gathering place of wizened scholars who will point the way to his journey's terminus. To the Cosmopolis banker or the stock broker, these would appear merely as drug-addled, mentally disturbed vagrants, huddled on their benches and in their makeshift shelters, hiding from a world that does not want them. But he sees them, rarefied, the purity that shines within beneath the filth and the grime, assembled like disciples at the Last Supper, patiently awaiting blessings from the Lord. There is Brother Ambrose, the soldier of God who came home a cripple… Sister Theresa, whose mind sees truths that would rather hide in the shadows… The Blessed Proctor, who would pose riddles to refine the mind… But at their center is one who presides over this hidden court, gentle Ivan, who feeds a bird perched atop his hand, a common pigeon endemic to this city… But like all things in this court, shines with a light that those obsessed with wealth, power, and status cannot see.
"And at that moment I saw that Heaven was opened," The Angel intones reverently, spreading his hands as he approaches Ivan, "And I saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alight upon him, and a voice from Heaven told me that this was the beloved Son of God, with whom the divine is most pleased," He sinks to one knee as Gentle Ivan turns to face him.
"What do you seek, blessed servant?" Ivan asks, swaying as he walks a few paces towards the angel.
"Vengeance," He responds, his voice harsh, "A cool drop of water to slake the hellfire in my breast."
"Oh scapegoat," Ivan touches the Angel's brow, "You carry the inconsolable rage of us all."
"Where is he? Where is my next target?"
Ivan closes his eyes, his lids fluttering as the pigeon coos, "Beneath the old chancery, as far as north is from the south, a portal, a threshold. A hidden door… Hiding like a rat in the walls, waiting for God's messenger."
The Angel inhales sharply, rising to his feet, "Thank you," He almost hisses, turning on his heel and bounding through bushes and across the street, heedless of honking cars as he pursues his quarry north. He needs no rest, no respite, for he is driven only by his knowledge that his service is… Divine.
Nighthawk is a wanted man in Cosmopolis. In the wake of the dangerous aerial chase through the city's skyline, the defense team for Arthur Richmond had thrown everything they had into discrediting the evidence previously accepted by the courts on the basis of Nighthawk's own criminality and status as a murderer, calling into question his work and highlighting the prior allegations that he had murdered Tyson Raine to obtain the evidence of Arthur Richmond's malfeasance. Kyle and Charles decided it was time for Nighthawk to step back into the shadows and for Kyle to rest, while Charles performed repairs on the wings and repulsors. But even as they rest and recuperate, there is a silent ticking clock bearing down on them. The day is June 11th, and in two weeks, the next Doll-Face killing will take place… They were still searching for the proprietor of the Old Cosmo Theater, who might have some inkling as to the identity of the ventriloquist.
Kyle wanders the dim corridors of the Hawk's Nest with two cups of coffee, the Doll-Face case file compiled by the missing Detective Isaac Moreau tucked under one arm as he stops by the workshop, placing one of the cups nearby Charles as the old engineer sprays black paint onto scuffs on the wings. After applying the finishing touches, Charles removes his respirator and shuts down the airspray's compressor.
"A little light reading there," He remarks with dry wit, reaching for the coffee cup.
Kyle smiles wryly while glancing at the case file, "Moreau probably saw things in this case neither of us would know how to see. I've had no luck trying to find the owner of the theater, so I figured I'd crack this open and take a look. Is the suit back in working order?"
"Mm," Charles nods, sipping the coffee, "Nighthawk should be back in business now. Though much more under the radar than before, mind you. Any luck investigating our possible femme fatale?"
Kyle nods, turning on one of the screens and keying it to the networked data mining engine, "Victoria Juliet Steele, works as one of three Assistant District Attorneys for the Cosmopolis District Court in the state of New Troy, born in 1968, she grew up an only child to Benjamin and Patricia Steele. Got her bachelors in Pre-Law from University of Niagara, and her law degree at BFU. Passed the bar on her first try in '92. Overall seems to have a good track record, apart from a sealed juvenile file."
"A hidden past for our virtuous attorney?" Charles asks.
"Are there any virtuous attorneys?" Kyle dryly responds, "No, not hidden at all. In fact, she alludes to it in her entrance exam for undergraduate admissions which she then published in the school newspaper, telling a story of learning personal responsibility and coming to better understand the point of law from her own criminal background… Of shoplifting make-up."
The two men stare silently at the screen for a long moment, broken only by Charles slurping his coffee and sighing contentedly. "I call bullshit," He comments on Steele's history.
"Maybe," Kyle shrugs, turning off the screen, "But I think we won't find out through indirect methods. If she's really responsible for murdering six men, we need to find out why and prove that she did it, not just to get the police off our backs, but to vindicate the name of Nighthawk in the courts."
"That's the important part," Charles nods, "If that evidence is thrown out, we're back to square one and your father will make damn sure we don't get a second chance."
Kyle's cell phone buzzes, rattling on the metal table and drawing their attention. He walks over to grab it, scowling at what he reads on the screen, "Speak of the devil," He mutters to Charles. His father was crowing in victory over the blow to Nighthawk's reputation, demanding his son come join in the celebration… But Kyle just sets the phone down with a sigh.
"..." Charles leans against one of the tables, "Kyle…" His silence fills the room, and the younger man knows there's something he wants to say.
"Spit it out, Charles," He says.
The inventor searches for the words, finally saying, "This Steele seems to be a good attorney, even if she… Y'know, maybe murdered those guys and pinned it on you. It might be best to just let her work, not dig too far into her motives."
"Everything hinges on Nighthawk's testimony," Kyle responds, "And she… She's knowingly undermined that testimony now. We have to figure it out and set things right, or my father walks free and Richmond Pharmaceuticals keeps pumping out poison."
"Just seems like we're in a Catch-22," Charles complains, "And there's no good way out of it."
Kyle grunts in response, heading back to the reading room with the thick case file in settles into an old, threadbare couch and sets the large stack of casefiles on the table, taking a deep breath as he stares at the manila folders. If he went by Effie's word, the missing Isaac Moreau was ten times the detective that Nighthawk would ever be… Experienced, professional, and accomplished, not an amateur relying on proprietary technology… A real detective. He'd already made the Old Cosmo connection somewhere in the history of these files and dismissed it out of hand, but Kyle couldn't help but feel…
He closes his eyes, shaking his head. Nighthawk didn't feel the connection was simply a strange coincidence, not after seeing the strange and unsettling telling of Ollie & Mr. Charlie's debut and final performance. Moreau might not have seen the importance, but Nighthawk had looked a little deeper.
"Time to see how deep the rabbit hole goes," Nighthawk mutters, deciding to start with the Pell file first. He pulls it out of the stack, a worn and coffee-stained assortment of evidence sheets, notes, photos, and other paperwork waiting inside. He sips his coffee and dives in, studying the documents closely.
June 30th, 1989
The body of Henry Pell showed up today… He was found floating in the Hudson, tied to a dock strut… Along with his Doll, which confirms beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is another instance of the Doll-Face killings, the eighth one… So far. This one seems different than the ones before. The killer was sloppy this time - Margaret Pell can attest to that. I think he put his frustration with the botched capture into his work. Henry's body is far more brutalized than any of the prior victims. Though the killer did go to some effort to make sure we knew this was Pell… One of his hands was sealed up in a plastic bag to make sure we could take the prints. We were able to get a solid fingerprint confirming that this is Mr. Pell, but that's all we had to go off of… Man's head was bashed clean off his neck. Mortician is still doing the autopsy downstairs, but first reports coming up from the table are that the killer used a blunt object to crush Pell's head until there was nothing left.
We've had a week to work. Neighbors reportedly didn't see anything that night. Nobody at the dock saw anything, and it's difficult to say when the body was dumped in the river. Not sure why the body was dumped there… But the attack was also random from what we can tell. There's been very little in the way of connecting factors between the eight victims, none have strongly overlapping details. Age, sex, location, marital status, there's no thread between them to strongly identify the killer's motive other than a love for random slaughter… Restrained in some way by his common sense, avoiding going out of control on a spree. He doesn't seem to have any sexual interest in his victims, and as far as we've been able to tell he doesn't take trophies or cannibalize the bodies. It's still strange that he leaves a trophy as a calling card… And such a detailed, finely made one. I've been talking to some forensic pathologists down at the FBI and they're pretty puzzled by the whole thing. It's not uncommon for serial killers to leave a calling card, something unique or dramatic… But a whole doll, painstakingly carved and made to depict the victim in some sort of twisted tribute…
What is he trying to say? Why memorialize the people he kills seemingly randomly? I honestly don't get it, and it really baffles the shrinks that the FBI has hired to think about this kind of thing all the time. It's not rabid slaughter, it's not an uncontrollable impulse, each one is painstakingly chosen and hunted… like a ritual. Like religion. Maybe that's it? Maybe they're something like a sacrifice. We haven't seen any sort of satanic or pagan imagery on any of the bodies or near any of the crime scenes though, so that rules out that kind of activity… Or just makes it a lot more unlikely. Hard to say. The pattern is hard to get a grasp on.
This is my second year on the Doll-Face killings… I hear that I'm going to take over for Detective Combs, the higher-ups aren't happy with his handling of things for the last seven years. I think he'll be relieved… You could see it in his eyes, when we saw Pell's body. Just something slowly dying inside him, losing his ability to focus, to find the one clue hidden in the scene that will
I need to find the clue that solves this case. If I'm taking this thing over, I can't have it hanging over my whole career… Maybe we'll get lucky and the killer will croak and die before the next killing. Hit by car, fall down an open manhole, contract some flesh-eating virus and dies in his bed. We should be so lucky. We just need his guardian angel to look the other way just once. Just once.
Nighthawk frowns, setting the note aside and looking at some of the autopsy photos of Pell… The details were gruesome, and this killing stood out in the record from the others. Moreau had been right in the long run, this had been the most brutal of the killings in twenty-four years. It was also the only one to go so awry, with Margaret's unexpected presence perhaps enraging the killer. Flipping through the file, he pores over the other details… Moreau had tried drawing an intersecting point between all the killings, but that had proved fruitless, since the point of intersection was in the middle of a river. The killer was preying on different neighborhoods and boroughs of Cosmopolis with no rhyme or reason, picked at random. He wasn't moving steadily or systematically, he would appear and simply steal away with his victim in the dead of night. Trying to track and trace every case of someone reporting that they were feeling watched or followed was next to impossible in a city of this size too…
He leans back on the sofa, thinking of his possible next moves. Assuming "Ollie" was short for Oliver, and not just a stage name, he could run a search on every Oliver in the city and its surrounding postal codes, and weed out any who hadn't been in the city for twenty-five or more years… But the list could still be several hundred persons long, which would require additional narrowing down and investigation to produce a list that could still be dozens in length. He stares at the stack, leaning forward to thumb through the folders. Moreau was listed as case manager for eight cases, from 1990-1998, with his first case being 1988. Before that, Geoffrey Combs was the case manager starting in 1981 with the first murder and ending in 1989, and from 1998-2005 they had been rotating between a cast of junior and senior detectives who were all quick to distance themselves from the investigation. A grisly chain of murders decades in length, part of the city's more sordid legacy becoming a rite of passage for the city's police force.
For one legend to rise and become feared and infamous amongst those who preyed on the weak and the vulnerable, another legend had to come crashing down, he muses. Nighthawk couldn't quite place the feeling inside him that now drove him inexorably. Perhaps it was rage over his mother's senseless passing, or guilt over his father's years of abuse and greed. Or maybe he just felt there had to be some active force for good in the world, when it seemed that there was only a vacant throne in heaven, no righteous protector of the good and destroyer of the evil.
Kyle's phone vibrates again, and he checks the screen, knowing what he would see. Words from one of the evil, one of the unchecked, one of the cruel. He stares at the screen for a few moments before resolving that if Nighthawk had to stay grounded, then Kyle Richmond must get to work. He sets his phone aside and continues reading through the casefiles, trying to glean any wisdom or skill from the words of Detective Moreau and his erstwhile colleagues.
Collecting himself from a long stint of reading, Kyle bids Charles goodbye and heads to his penthouse in the heart of the city, a place where he rarely could be found. Taking a much-needed shower, he exalts in the near-scalding hot water that washes him clean. Refreshed, he then heads to his spacious closet, picks out a well-tailored suit, and calls a limo to come pick him up and deliver him to Richmond Tower.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Richmond," A secretary greets him as he steps off the elevator and onto the 56th floor, the C-suite headquarters for Arthur and his host of cronies and sycophants. There was a festive mood in the air, employees chatting amiably in the corridors, managers and executives drinking in their offices. A rather sickening display since they were likely celebrating their boss's recent good fortune.
"Ms. Ashwood," He nods, remembering her name distantly, "I take it we're all in good spirits today?"
"Oh yes, of course sir," She nods enthusiastically, afraid to signal disloyalty to the boss's son.
"Is my father here?" He looks around the area, knowing that technically speaking, Arthur shouldn't be in the office. A legal injunction barred him from running the affairs of the company, leaving it in Kyle's capable hands.
"He was," She nods, "But he went with Mr. Portland and Mr. Cruz and some of the senior VPs to Reggiano's on 5th and E."
Kyle shakes his head, chuckling in disbelief as he walks past her towards his own office. Kyle Richmond might as well show that he was working to keep the company running, even if he'd rather let it all come crashing down.
"Mr. Richmond, your father told me that you should join him at the steakhouse," She adds, standing up from her desk and following after him.
"I'm sure he did, but as acting CEO, I need to make sure this company actually stays afloat," He looks around, "We do have a fiduciary responsibility to our stockholders, unless I'm mistaken."
"No… But your father was very insistent-" Ms. Ashwood follows him.
"I am sure he was, but even multimillionaires sometimes don't get what they want," He turns around, smiling down at her, "I want the most recent monthly reports on my desk in the next half hour, Ms. Ashwood, I want the notes from any meetings he's had with Mr. Root, and a pot of fresh coffee as well."
"Mr. Richmond-"
"Now, Ms. Ashwood," He towers over her, his face a mask of authority softened only slightly by a smug expression. The secretary nods meekly, retreating to her desk as he sighs, releasing the tension from his shoulders and turning to enter his office. Sitting behind his desk, he spins casually to stare out the window, taking in the sight of Cosmopolis' skyline and the boat traffic passing by in the bay. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and he almost felt himself relax when a red streak flashes by the window, rocketing off towards the UN building and the Panopticon, their security headquarters.
"What the-" Kyle catches himself jumping out of his chair, and slowly heads to the window, catching a glimpse of the red and gold blur flying away. This was a new occurrence that he hadn't quite known what to make sense of, a topic he'd rather not think about for all the concerns and questions it raised.
Hyperion, the Atomic Hero for the Modern Age, an alien from a distant world who bore the face of a normal man, and now fought for the benefit of the UN and all humanity. It was a strange, fantastical thing to see, and troubling for the existential questions it raised. Hyperion's debut had coincided with another stroke of good luck for Arthur Richmond: Burbank Industries had its CEO and president ousted and the company's assets were frozen by the government and placed under powerful sanctions, effectively killing the company and opening up its market share for aggressive expansion. Richmond Corp. happily filled the void left behind by Emil Burbank's downfall.
"Must be nice for your corrupt leader of industry to be taken down so easily," Kyle mutters darkly, glaring at the vanishing form of Hyperion. He ponders that it might be worth his while to investigate Hyperion more after the Dollface Killer case was resolved… He almost laughs at himself thinking about that. Like it would be so easy to resolve a case that had stretched on for twenty-five years… He looks to the east, where the UN building and Panopticon lay, out of sight and obscured by the skyline. Perhaps the throne of heaven was less vacant than he previously thought… But if they were the ones in charge of meting out justice and vindication on a global scale, then it would be good to better understand them and their newest champion…
Kyle considers the possibilities for a few more minutes before turning back to his desk to read the latest tech industry news, waiting for his requested coffee and materials to arrive. Once they did, he dismissed Ms. Ashwood, instructing he was not to be disturbed while perusing the reports and other documents. He had to stay on top of this part of his life, to ensure that Richmond Corp. did not have the resources to continuously fund Arthur's legal campaign and to continually undermine the legal strategy laid out by Curtis Root, who at least seemed to become more aligned to Nighthawk's instructions in the following days. It was a start, but only a start… The real test of his convictions would come in their next court day. If Root realigned himself back to Arthur's goals, Nighthawk would simply have to exert more pressure to get the lawyer back in line.
The hardest question was this… How could he either wrest control of the entire company from the corrupt and greedy corps of executives and managers who were under Arthur's influence… Or just bring the entire thing crashing down around his father's head? Kyle was walking a fine line so far, merely keeping up the pretense of aiding and abetting his father, but actively working against him would send up several red flags, and they would shut him out most effectively.
He pours himself a cup of coffee, sighing tiredly as he takes a sip. Destroying Richmond Corp. would also have some negative effects on Kyle Richmond, he had to admit. It would be harder to hide his activities as Nighthawk if he didn't have the rich playboy identity to rely on, and the corporation's rampant corruption and obfuscation made it remarkably easy for him to disguise his own embezzlement of resources to siphon into the Nighthawk project. If those expenditures were discovered in an open audit, he would be nailed to the wall with remarkable speed. As much as he wanted to gut the company and leave it to die as a final insult to Arthur… He had to admit that it was wiser to keep the company going and just attempt to mitigate the worst excesses.
"Thinking deep thoughts, Mr. Richmond?" A voice breaks through his concentration, and Kyle jumps in his chair, alarmed that someone managed to sneak up on him in his own office. He looks up in shock, seeing the beautiful Victoria Steele standing on the threshold, a smug smirk painted on her face. "-Sorry, did I surprise you? Maybe I should have knocked."
"Ms. Steele," He breathes, frowning, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" His mind races, examining her closely, trying to memorize every twitch and flicker in her face, and understand her microexpressions.
"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop in," She smiles coyly, "I was actually convinced I'd find your father here, not you."
"Mr. Richmond is down at Reggiano's, enjoying a nice steak and cocktail," Kyle says, while quietly thinking his father was probably enjoying a cocktail waitress at the same time, "I'm sure there will be plenty of eyewitnesses who could corroborate his whereabouts today."
He pauses, frowning, "And my work requires me to be a bit more active than simply manning a desk-"
"Please, Mr. Richmond," She holds up a hand, "Let's not get defensive, you're not on trial… But we do know of your… Activities."
Kyle stiffens, his frown deepening, "If you're implying-" He looks around, "How did you get in here without my secretary-"
"I have my ways, don't you worry about that. And I don't judge, everyone has their own way to… Unwind, Mr. Richmond. In fact, I can even relate," She smiles at him, drawing a rather frustrated look in response, "You really don't- Aha! Relax, Mr. Richmond. The Neon? Two Fridays ago? You were there with some supermodels, getting some very overpriced bottle service. I saw you out there, just didn't think to stop and say hi."
Kyle stares at her blankly for a moment before it clicks into place, the glitzy nightclub hidden in some warehouse district with the incessant flashing lights and thumping music. He'd found the entire experience rather miserable, but he didn't imagine… "You frequent the Neon?"
"Sometimes, when the mood strikes me," She says with a sly shrug, "They've got a good DJ, and I get my drinks for free there, but it's so far out of the way, and the clientele… Eh," She makes a shaky gesture with her hand, "Not really my kind of people."
"I didn't take you for the clubbing type, Ms. Steele," He raises an eyebrow.
"...Call me Victoria," She says, crossing her legs.
Kyle could almost laugh at the explicit attempt to seduce him, "Change your mind since our last meeting… Victoria?" He replies flirtatiously. She had mistaken his attempt at pulling information out of her for taking a pass at her, but it definitely seems like she decided she could capitalize on his attraction to her to accomplish something for herself… And if she was going to make those forays, then he would gladly pretend to be engaged and interested, if only to get closer and get the information he wanted about the murders pinned on Nighthawk.
"Seems like such familiarity could get us both in trouble," He adds.
"Well," Victoria chuckles, "I won't tell anyone if you won't."
He considers this for a moment, quietly appraising her, "Well, then you definitely have to call me Kyle," He smirks slightly, "It's only fair."
"Only fair," She agrees.
They stare at each other for a moment before he breaks the silence, "So, I didn't take you for the clubbing type, Victoria."
"I hear it suits you," She evades the question, "But, yeah, I enjoy it. And Cosmopolis has some of the best, but none of it really compares to the scene in Europe. Paris, Berlin, they have some great clubs - and a pop-up scene that really amps up the drama and excitement of it. Twenty-four hours notice and you show up in an old building, pumping with music, and lose yourself in the dancing with people you'll likely never see again…"
"Spend a lot of time in Europe?" He asks, noting down her seeming enthusiasm for intoxication.
"I did a summer abroad in college," She shrugs, "And went back for a couple years after law school. Finding myself, you could say."
"And… What did you find?" He asks softly.
That makes her hesitate for a moment, "Story for another time, Kyle," Victoria replies. "But since I have you here, and we're getting along so well…" She leans back in her seat, "Your father's case is going to end poorly for him. I wonder if you might be willing to help him see things our way."
"You really don't waste time cutting to the chase," He laughs, "And funny, with Nighthawk now a wanted murderer, it looks like your case is dead in the water, Victoria. Why should I lift a finger to convince my father of… Anything?"
A brief flicker of annoyance crosses her face, "The Nighthawk situation is regrettable, but we still have other tools in our arsenal," She taps her fingers on her arm, "But we're not unreasonable people. We are preparing a plea deal for your father. He pleads guilty, he'll have to pay a multi-million dollar fine and spend two years under house arrest… But after that, he'll regain control of his company. It will open him up to civil litigation of course… But compared to life in prison and civil litigation, I think he'll find our deal is worth taking."
Alarm bells go off in Kyle's head as he ponders this situation. They clearly haven't presented the deal to Arthur yet, but when they do, he's likely to take it instead of continuing a protracted legal battle… And then what? He spends two years cooped up in a penthouse apartment, being waited on hand and foot, only to go free and continue ruining lives? This was unacceptable… But Kyle Richmond couldn't say that.
"Heh," He leans back in his chair, "You're desperate."
"We're efficient," She responds evenly, a touch irritated with him, "I'm efficient."
"You wouldn't be throwing a plea deal at him if the Nighthawk thing wasn't such a big deal to you," He grins, "You're trying to make this go away, not just because you might lose the case, but you'll be tainted by your reliance on the testimony of a murderer and a vigilante."
Kyle's grin grows as he leans forward, interlocking his fingers on his desk, "My father can beat you, and you know it."
"Mr Richmond-"
"Kyle, remember?" He interjects, and they stare at each other silently for a long minute. He breaks the tension slowly, "Listen, I'm just teasing you a little. Obviously, there's a way to do this where my father takes an undue amount of responsibility for the actions- pardon me, alleged actions- of rogue employees, and where you save face for… Relying on a crazed psycho in his pajamas."
She scowls at him, which only makes his grin widen, "I didn't say I wouldn't help you… But I believe in your expertise, there's a term to use for these kinds of situations."
"...Quid pro quo?" Victoria raises an eyebrow.
"Exactamundo," He nods sagely, "Let's say… Dinner? We go on a nice date, have a good time… And if it all goes well, sure, I'll talk to my father. Get him to sign your little plea deal and put this whole thing to rest." Kyle watches her carefully while pretending nonchalance, noting how she was struggling to mask her frustration with the coy veneer of attraction and seduction. She wasn't half-bad, but she had yet to fully master herself.
"Do we have a deal, Victoria?" He asks.
"...It's a date," She nods, putting on a bright smile. She rifles through her purse, pulling out a card and handing it to him, "Call me, when you have plans in mind."
He rises to his feet, reaching past her card to snatch her wrist and pull her in towards his desk. The two are caught in a moment of frozen adrenaline, staring at each other as he gets the strangest sense of deja vu. Something about her physicality reminded him of…
"Kyle," She breathes, staring up at him, "Is this your attempt to… Intimidate me?"
"Not at all Victoria," He stares down at her, towering over her, "I just wanted to see your eyes in a clearer light…" He studies her face, caught off guard by his strength and his sudden impulse, "They're beautiful," Kyle comments offhandedly, taking her card and releasing her. Victoria pulls back quickly, her face a stony mask as she holds in her warring emotions. Anger at his trespass, fascination at his compliment, and the manipulativeness needed to keep playing at attraction between them.
"Does that move work on the supermodels?" She asks shakily, getting to her feet "Or is that something new?"
"Gentlemen don't kiss and tell, Victoria," He replies smugly, "You found your way in… I trust you can find your way out with equal discretion?"
"..." Her eyes narrow, slightly offended from a sense of professional pride, "Of course."
"Then I'll see you later," He says, sitting back down, placing her card on his desk, "I'd love to keep chatting… But international corporations don't run themselves, you know."
"Naturally," She steps back to the door, staring at him for a moment longer, "Be seeing you, Kyle."
"I'll call you," He promises, tapping her card.
"Right," She nods, retreating back the way she came.
Kyle watches her go and waits for a few minutes before exhaling slowly, the tension draining from his body. For a moment, he genuinely thought she was accusing him of being Nighthawk… But the conversation had gone through some very strange twists and turns from that point. He was lucky, able to get closer to her and try to find some evidence to clear his own name… And buying him some time before she presented her plea deal and sunk the work of three years and all the sacrifices that Nighthawk had to make to get this far. Too much was riding on sinking the plea deal and clearing Nighthawk's name… But there was a lingering question here, something he couldn't quite shake. When he grabbed her wrist, something in his mind, like muscle memory, told him that there was something dangerously familiar to the taut, powerful frame she kept hidden beneath the surface.
"...Hh," Kyle sips his coffee, finding it lukewarm. Too many questions without answers and the clock was ticking down. His father could escape justice… And in two weeks another victim will be claimed by the Dollface Killer. There was no time to waste on a date, but it was a necessity. Kyle collects up the papers on his desk, shoving them away into a drawer before heading out, preparing to rush off to his next engagement.
As Kyle prepares to depart from the office, a memorial along the way through the corridor to the elevators catches his eye. It's a glass case, a memento to the company's history, and a shrine to his deceased mother's work for the company's philanthropic foundation. He slows to a stop, a pang in his heart as he sees pictures of his mother during a more youthful time. A plaque in the center of the case reads, "In Loving Memory of Monica Richmond: Mother, Wife, Captain of Charity".
Kyle smiles softly, touching the glass as he reads the descriptions of his mother's work alongside pictures and mementos of different projects and campaigns. Charity drives to fight poverty in Cosmopolis, get medical supplies and food to refugees in Africa, collect books for public school libraries… No cause too big or too small for his mother. One black and white picture stands out to him, a Catholic priest holding a pair of oversized scissors with his mother to cut the ribbon on a new building. Leaning closer, the caption reads, "1991 Opening of St. Berchard Orphanage". Her smile is broad, her joy infectious, and he can't help but smile too. The description reads that those who were top contributors to the campaign to fund the orphanage received a gold-plated ring to commemorate the work. Monica's was proudly on display, a souvenir of her tremendous work… But when Kyle inspects it, an icy knife is plunged through his heart. The gold-plated ring bears a seal, a mark of St. Berchard… And it is an identical match for a strange, esoteric symbol he's seen across the city, associated with the bloodiest of murders.
Whoever has been hunting down, murdering, and torching the members of the Jenkins Crime Ring was somehow tied to the Catholic Order of St. Berchard.