Clark sat in a dumpster by the docks, and stared through the metal walls. A September shower pattered on the plastic top of the metal box. The few pieces of cardboard and refuse had been shoved to the side - as this dumpster was meant for cardboard only, it did not smell too bad. Though his enhanced senses did make the slight stench worse. A quiet and isolated location like this allowed Clark to focus. Away from the sun, away from the moon, as contained from the noise of the city as he could be.
Chatter on the streets from Empire thugs had remained the same for the past two weeks. An outpour of hate, little of substance. An occasional mention of the ABB 'getting what it deserved'. Clark had heard some chatter from Victor as well, telling some of the thugs to prepare for a fight, and that they'd follow Purity's lead. Nothing had happened yet beyond the usual high school fights by teenagers. But once discussion had come up about an arms shipment, Clark had known he must investigate. So, he sat in a cardboard dumpster, and amused himself by watching a movie at the theater a block away. It took some concentration to control his vision to pierce only certain walls, but it was good practice. He enjoyed the film enough, and Russell Crowe did quite well as Ivanhoe. He felt that they should have cast an actually Jewish actress for Rebecca, but with the rise of white nationalism in the country, he supposed it could be too big of an ask. Near the pinnacle of the film, his ears picked up the tread of heavy boots. He snapped his attention away from the theater, and towards the docks that his dumpster faced.
Shipping containers littered the area, some from the temporary housing that Brockton once had, some rusted in place, stacked high and haphazardly about. Like some giant child had discarded its blocks out of disinterest. The moon provided little light with the rain clouds above. Four men waited by two speedboats, flashlights their only source of illumination. Two waited in the boats, and passed crates up to the other duo on the concrete dock above. The crates held a menagerie of weapons of various ages. Mostly Mexican-produced rifles, from the look of the lettering on their stamps. A few crates had areas Clark strained to see through, but failed. Lead. Boxes and boxes of bullets. Clark had known about this weakness for his sight for some time, but it did not change much. A vague shape he could not see through often told him all he needed, even if he could not see its details.
The tread of boots grew louder, and the Empire made its appearance. Victor and Rune, along with four skinheads. Rune's face, past her mask, wrinkled in distaste for the smugglers before them. A familiar scowl, and a confirmation for what he had guessed - Rune was the blonde girl from Winslow that Victor had picked up. Still no definite name, but a name should not be too hard to find with a lead like that.
Victor led the discussion with the smugglers. Clark listened, but found nothing more than some minor disagreement over the quality of the guns, and the price the smugglers asked. After a few minutes, Victor gave in, and raised up his phone for a call.
The rumble of an engine reached Clark's ears before those on the dock. A white van pulled in. Its side door slid open, two more Empire thugs jumping out. A third figure emerged from the driver's seat. Their outfit marked them as a cape, a skintight red suit that showed off an athletic physique. She strode to Victor first, a light touch on his bare arm. Victor responded with a gentle squeeze of her hand and a whisper that identified her.
Othala.
From the way the two interacted, they had to have some sort of connection. Victor had spoken so highly of his wife - had he lied? His heartbeat had remained calm, but Clark had started to realize that that measurement's use as a lie detector had limited results. Clark scanned the face beneath Othala's eyepatch and long hair all the same. He would commit the face to memory, and hope to find out her true identity soon.
One of the thugs from the van brought out a suitcase, filled with hundreds. The smugglers did not look too pleased by the offer, but as soon as Rune began to draw in the air, they accepted. Clark did not blame them. The trio of capes before him had the power to decimate an area, between Rune's telekinesis, Victor's skill-sets, and whatever abilities Othala had to give. Clark shook his head at his own lack of preparedness. He had to do more research. He knew she could grant regeneration, but there had to be more than just that. Three capes and more thugs against four smugglers remained poor odds, so after a few minor threats, the arms dealers retreated to their boats, and sped away. He could not blame them, Brockton Bay had little in the way of attractions, and the PRT's recent attempts to crack down on smuggling had borne some fruit in the past month. Plus, this location was in an area where the PRT did send out patrols, though it lay on edge of their interests
It did not take long for the van to be loaded. The group of skinheads took to it quickly, though Rune did berate them a bit.
"Come onnnnn! We don't have all night, it's already one!" The teen nazi used her telekinesis to help load the van, while Victor and Othala chatted in hushed voices.
On a whim, Clark focused on the van's glove box, and further onto the insurance and registration for the van. His eyes widened. The van was registered to Fleischer Pharma. Krieg's civilian company. A now disgraced and bankrupt subsidiary of Medhall. A strong connection, one he could use to give concrete evidence to connect Victor and Andrew Christiansen.
He did not move a muscle as the skinheads loaded the van. The confirmation of Runes identity alone justified this stakeout, but Clark felt he had a real chance to get more. With Rune and Victor on this venture together, it meant no capes at Victor's house. The opportunity to plunder Victor's house for information and proof of identity demanded that Clark investigate. Each box loaded felt agonizingly slow, and from Rune's loud exclamations of frustration, Clark knew that he was not alone in this feeling.
At long last, the boxes of rifles and ammo had been loaded in the back of the van. The three capes piled inside, while most of the thugs ran off to whatever other vehicles the Neo-Nazis had used. Clark counted to ten after they had left, his ears still trained on the rumble of the van's engine. He kept his super-hearing focused on it as he clambered free from the dumpster and took off at a sprint. He had found Victor's address by following him with his enhanced senses a few days ago, and had the location memorized. The faster he got there, the more time he had to gather information.
It took a quick bus ride and another few minutes of a dead sprint to come up into the neighborhood, but the excitement of the night prevented Clark from feeling winded. He still kept his ears trained on the van. It had stopped, and a focused glance in its direction told him that the white vehicle had stopped at some warehouse. A large group of skinheads were inside, but Clark did not bother to maintain the focus. So long as Victor and Rune were out, he would be safe.
Victor's house sat deep within Empire 88 territory, in a small suburb with wooded streets. A nice spot, save for its inhabitants. The house itself has a white picket fence around its flat, near perfect lawn. A few weeds poked through around the corners of the green, but overall it looked well maintained. The house had a calm cream color, with dark brown highlights around the windows. The front door had been painted a bright red, sometime recently. A flagpole stood in the yard, with a faded American flag that hung limp and damp off it. A glance through nearby walls confirmed the neighbors all slumbered peacefully, save for a teen boy working through some homework. Good. Clark knew his trenchcoat and hat pulled low made him look suspicious, and did not want anyone to call the cops on him while he tried to break in. He attempted to use his vision to find a key to open the front door, but it looked like Victor had thought not to leave a spare. Reluctant, Clark patted his pockets until he found the lock picking kit he had bought off the Shuster computer.
He approached the red door. Even with confirmation from his senses that no one detected him, Clark still felt an intense fear as he strode forward.
The lock itself looked standard, or close enough to standard. He knew that he had little to no experience with the lockpicks, and that he'd have to rely on his vision to help him out. It took far longer than he would have liked, while his ears just picked up the sound of a Nazi rally reaching a crescendo. As the Empire skinheads started a chant, Clark finally felt the lock give way. He wiped his sweaty hands on his damp coat, and entered the Christiansen residence.
It looked normal enough. A backpack by the door, Rune's, no doubt. A few family photos. Victor, out of costume, with a few unfamiliar men. One of Krieg - James, Clark reminded himself - with a serious face, next to a smiling Andrew/Victor. A wedding picture, with a broad smile on Andrew's face next to a beaming bride. The woman's face matched the one Clark had seen on the docks. Othala - Olivia Christiansen, Andrew/Victor's wife. It explained their close touches at the docks. Another of Olivia with Tammi and a few other women. Their family, no doubt. Carefully, Clark withdrew a digital camera from his pocket. He snapped a few pictures of the photos on the wall, making sure the faces were in focus.
Further into the house, he found a chocolate cake on the counter, beneath a glass cover. He felt tempted to take a slice, but ignored it. He wouldn't eat some Neo-Nazi's baking. Besides, Tziporrah had promised chocolate babka for tomorrow, he couldn't stuff himself now.
The house, while not huge, definitely had an affluent taste to it. It stood deep within a good part of the suburbs. The structure was recent, from the look of the studs and lack of dust or asbestos in the walls. The question remained of how a man in his early twenties afforded a full house, a stay-at-home wife, and a cousin staying with him.
Clark reached the home office. Far away, he could hear the sounds of crates opened up, guns being loaded. The Empire would be making an attack soon. He had some time, so long as none of the trio of capes who lived here finished up early.
A glance through the wood of the desk revealed which drawer held important documents. Clark pulled the folder free, and began to photograph. An employee agreement for Fleischer Pharma, signing on one Andrew Christiansen. A fairly high salary, for a consultant. A marriage license for Andrew Christiansen and Olivia Herren. Several signed papers, all with various signatures on one line, and Andrew's on the other. Clark felt his face pale as he read through the contracts.
Permissions for interviews with patients in hospice care, who had purchased medicine from Fleischer Pharma. Each paper laid out their former profession and medical details. Including their race.
Clark took pictures of each one, a sense of horror and dread slowly building within him. Leon Schwartz. Jewish locksmith. David Goldberg. Yiddish veteran of the Second World War. Tom Stewart. African American veteran of the Vietnam war. Mori Mamoru. Japanese Judo teacher.
Clark knew Victor's power from his research, and from his listening in to Empire thugs. Each contract in the stack listed a minority in hospice care with some particular skill. A skill Victor must have stolen from them through the course of his 'interviews'. Every day Victor operated further would result in yet another elderly minority having their abilities stolen. Every day Victor operated further would result in the white supremacist gaining powers and abilities from those without a chance to fight back. It presented a perfect coverup for his skill stealing.
A perfect coverup, had Clark not been there to expose it. Any of these papers taken in isolation would prove nothing. But the stack of them with dates and times proved that Victor only did this to non-white people. Another item to help prove the Nazi's allegiance.
He rustled through the desk some more. A receipt from a tattoo artist, billed to Fleischer Pharma. Love letters from Andrew to…
Clark paused. Love letters that were not addressed to Olivia, his wife. He began to flip through them. It felt odd to invade someone's personal life in such a manner. But every time he felt a bit of shame, one of the letters would mention 'securing a future for their white children', and that shame would burn away, replaced by rage. The letters themselves revealed Andrew's true feelings. Love, loneliness, and deep seated racism. The receiver of the letters has sent a few back, one Alice Herren. She must have been the lost love Andrew had referred to when Clark had met him in person. He took some pictures of the more egregious ones when it came to racism, and returned them to how he found them.
The desk held no more proof for his investigation, so Clark booted up the computer. He felt a bit stupid that he hadn't brought a flash drive, but a quick rummage through the desk produced a long forgotten one that he could steal. The computer itself required a password. Clark stared at the keys with his vision, in the hopes that it could somehow tell him which keys had been pressed the most often. It took a few seconds of staring for Clark to realize that the most pressed keys likely corresponded with the most used letters in English, and defeated for the moment, Clark shut the computer back down.
Clark looked through the house's walls, and tried to find another place to start. He had decent evidence that Andrew was intensely racist with ties to an arrested and proven white nationalist cape, and evidence that strongly suggested his cape identity. Nothing for Othala yet, and nothing for Rune. Clark smiled as his vision revealed a spot he had trouble seeing through. He wove his way through the house, careful to leave as little trace as possible, and reached the basement. A wall of various weapons adorned it, boxes of lead bullets hidden in the basement ceiling. He doubted Victor owned the permits for them all - a legal avenue to arrest him if the other parts did not pan out. He took a few pictures of them, making sure to focus on ones he had seen Victor use while out and about as a cape.
However, the basement held a far greater treasure. Several cracked and damaged black breastplates, along with hand written notes requesting small changes to the designs. The handwriting matched the love letters upstairs. A solid link for Victor. Enough to cause an investigation, if not arrest.
Another X-ray vision search through the house revealed less evidence for Othala/Olivia. With a flinch, Clark hears the spray of automatic weapons. After a few seconds without bullet wounds, Clark realized that the gunshots must be from the Empire operations tonight. Clark wished he believed as strongly as Tevye, so that he could say a prayer. His resolve hardened. He had to find proof for both Rune and Othala tonight. Three Empire capes taken into custody would not help rebuild any damage the Empire did today, but some revenge would be carried out.
He went to the bedroom, in the hopes of more clues. Andrew and Olivia's wedding album sat beneath their bed, and Clark pulled it out to flip through it. James Fliescher was in a few pictures, along with a younger Tammi. But the one who drew his attention the most was a man with brilliant blue eyes. Clark knew him from his TV appearances, disavowing Fleischer Pharma after Krieg's arrest. Max Anders, head of Medhall. A curiosity that he appeared at the wedding. Sure, a business partner of his attended, but that hardly meant he had needed to show. As Clark flipped through the album, he saw more and more of Max Anders and his wife. Andrew even appeared in more pictures with Max than with James. Clark took his digital camera out to document the wedding album. He wished he could take it with him, but he knew that the Christiansens would likely miss it.
An explosion across town brought Clark out of his focus. Othala and Rune. He needed proof of them.
He dug through Othala's bedside table first. Nothing of too much importance, until he found a burner phone. Texts filled it. Simple addresses, followed by an injury. Only two responses to each of them - 'Too damaged', or 'On my way'. Proof of Othala's use as the Empire's healer. Weak proof, but proof all the same. Clark just hoped the obvious connection between her and Victor he had was enough.
Rune was easy. Either she had not spent as long hiding her identity, or she simply had yet to unpack from her move. Documents in the guest room, still in half-unpacked luggage. She must have moved in with the Christiansens recently. After Krieg's arrest, perhaps. The PRT had only been able to grab him while he was relatively alone, and when the rest of the Empire had shown up to fight it had already been too late. Consolidating Rune with Othala and Victor must have been an attempt to combat another use of that strategy. The documents showed her as one Tammi Herren, released from juvie on good behavior. An enrollment in Winslow High. And a personal letter, signed by Kaiser himself. Praising her for her actions, telling her she should be proud of leaving her 'weak' family and that the Empire was her family now. The letter was crinkled, as if it had been read many times. Clark photographed it as well, next to all the other effects. Once more, not as solid proof as he had for Victor, but decent enough.
Clark pondered what to do with the information he has. Sure, Oni Lee had demanded his next investigation be given to him first, but Clark had proof for three capes' true identities. He could give Victor to the ABB, and let the PRT or New Wave arrest Othala and Rune. Despite their actions and words, Clark felt a little sympathy for them. After all, both were still teens. Not enough sympathy to forgive them, but he wanted them to have the chance at a prison cell, rather than whatever that creepy ninja had planned.
He began to pack all the items back as close as he could to how he had found them. Once he heard the sounds of Lung and the PRT engaging the Empire in battle, he knew his time was limited. He moved as fast as he dared. As he began to head for the door, he realized with horror that his wet coat had dripped onto the floor. He could only hope that the Christiansens were distracted enough by tonight's activity to not notice.
Clark fumbled with the lockpicks as he attempted to relock the red door. He could hear a neighbor or two waking up from the sounds of battle across town, and knew he had to hurry. Once finished with the picks, he broke into a dead sprint, and just ran towards his side of town. With the majority of the Empire's thugs occupied, he knew he could stay away from those that remained. He narrowed his senses down to just his immediate area to focus on avoiding detection. It took him over an hour to reach back into ABB territory, but the adrenaline kept him from feeling winded.
As he walked on, he could see some destruction. The Empire had hit the Bad Boyz, and hit them hard. Some areas looked more like a warzone, with Asian and occasional Jewish or Black civilians against the walls, or slumped over a ruined window. Not enough to earn the Empire any kill orders, of course. Just enough to frighten the minority population of Brockton Bay into its 'rightful place', as the Empire saw it. The PRT would not care. New Wave would give an interview about how terrible it was, and do little more than skirmish with the Empire again.
Clark could smell it before he saw it. The acrid scent of a burning building, along with a slight sweet smell of burning herbs and ingredients. He started to run again. It couldn't be. Oni Lee had promised protection. He ran faster and faster. The smell got worse, the flames brighter.
Soon enough, he saw it. The Shuster family bakery lit up the night sky. His heart sank. A young Asian man with heavy tattoos and bullet holes lay dead nearby, and some blonde cape was talking to Tziporrah. The whole Shuster family stood together before their burning business. Chava cried, Tevye tried to look stoic, and Tziporrah gave a statement to the cape. Clark didn't recognize her. Some member of New Wave, given the outfit. As Clark approached, the cape turned to him.
"Are you Clark?" She asked.
Tziporrah cut in, replying to the affirmative.
The blonde cape placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but you're lucky. Your whole family is safe, don't worry. I know it can take some effort to rebuild from something like this." The cape took a deep, trembling breath. Clark could see no visible wounds, and wondered what had shaken her this much. "So as I was telling the others, I'll be here to help."
She smiled before she sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. "It's these fucking Empire cunts. Sorry, pardon my language."
Tevye gave a weak chuckle. "Do not worry, it is justified."
"Right." The cape sighed. "As I told the others, I'm Crystal. Laserdream if you need to look me up online. I gave a card with my phone number to Mr. Shuster, just make sure he uses it when you need my help. I'll try to save as much of the building as I can now that I have your permission. I-" She paused, and Clark could see she was holding back tears. Of anger or sadness, he couldn't tell. "I'm sorry I couldn't help more."
Once she finished speaking, Laserdream began to form small, weak shields around parts of the structure, in an attempt to snuff out what fire she could. It didn't do much but prevent further spread. Tziporrah helped direct her, pointing out areas where flour was stored or other flammable items.
While the duo worked, Clark stood with Chava and Tevye. He patted the old man on the shoulder, unsure of how best to comfort him. Even with his amnesia, Clark felt as if he had never had to comfort someone like this before. That realization shocked him, and he felt shame at his unknown past.
Chava looked up at him. "Did you get something on those pig shit bastards?" she whispered.
"Chava!" Tevye exclaimed. But he turned to Clark all the same, the question written across his face.
"I did," Clark said. "And I know how to pay them back."
"Good," whispered Chava. The redheaded teen spat on the ground. "Ruen zol er nisht afile in keyver."
Tevye looked at his daughter in mild shock, then back to his burning bakery. His face hardened, and he too grumbled in his mother tongue. "Yemakh shmoy ve-zikhroy."
Clark could not understand the words, but he understood the sentiment. He slipped away from the family, and went off in search of the 24 hour Vietnamese cafe. The ABB would serve a better revenge than the heroes.
