Chapter 8: Hop, Skip, and A Jump
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By request:
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Michael adjusted his cloak, the cool night air brushing against his face. He glanced around the neat, tree-lined streets of Captain's Hill, where the buildings showed signs of age but were clearly cared for. "No Apparition yet," he muttered, smirking faintly. "Of course. Would make this way too easy."
He paused for a moment at the edge of the street, looking out over the gentle slope of the hill. From this vantage, the city spread out before him, lights twinkling like a scattered sea of stars. The Boardwalk glittered brightly to the east with its polished façade. Beyond it, the harbor's inky water reflected the faint glow of the Rig, and the sparkling spires of downtown to the south.
Michael let out a slow breath. "It's kinda pretty like this" he murmured, his tone soft. Then, shaking himself from the moment, he tugged his cloak tighter and started toward the bus stop he remembered passing earlier.
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The pavement beneath his boots was cracked in places but clean, and the occasional streetlight buzzed faintly overhead. The bus stop itself stood tidy and maintained, though the map posted inside its glass panel was faded and peeling at the edges. He traced the route with his finger, noting the stop nearest the docks—a reasonable distance from where he hoped to find rest for the night.
The bus arrived with a gentle hiss of its brakes, its lights washing over the quiet street. Michael climbed aboard, nodding at the driver and dropping his fare into the slot. Settling into a seat near the back, he gazed out the window as the vehicle began its steady descent from Captain's Hill.
The orderly streets of the hilltop soon gave way to busier, less polished neighborhoods. Shops and houses still carried signs of life, but graffiti and wear became more common. As the bus moved farther west, the sparkle of the city dimmed, replaced by a growing sense of abandonment. Streetlights flickered, casting uneven shadows over cracked asphalt and rusting fences.
Michael leaned back in his seat, watching the city shift. "Buses," he muttered, shaking his head. "Better than walking. Barely." He glanced toward the window, a faint smirk crossing his face. "Though I can't decide if the Knight Bus would've been better or worse. Faster? Yeah. But nausea-inducing near-death experiences? Hard pass."
When his stop appeared—a worn convenience store with a flickering neon sign—he stood and pulled the cord, stepping off as the bus came to a halt. The quiet was immediate, broken only by the faint hum of the vehicle pulling away. The stop itself was simple—a leaning pole with a schedule barely clinging to it—and the street around him felt eerily still.
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Michael inhaled the faint scent of salt and rust in the air, likely drifting from the docks nearby. He tugged his cloak tighter and began walking, his eyes scanning the area for somewhere to hunker down. This part of the city was far less polished than Captain's Hill, but he was used to rougher surroundings. The faint sound of music drifted from somewhere in the distance, mingling with the occasional car engine.
"Alright," he muttered, keeping his voice low. "Let's find somewhere quiet."
The streets were a patchwork of old industrial lots and scattered signs of life. A diner with faded signage sat on one corner, its neon long dead. Nearby, a chain-link fence rattled faintly in the breeze, the lot behind it empty save for cracked asphalt and weeds.
Michael's fingers brushed against his wand tucked inside his cloak, a brief pat for reassurance. It wasn't just a tool; it was his edge. His magic had carried him through one reality and into another. He just needed to remember that power didn't mean invincibility.
He turned a corner, and signs of the Merchants began to creep into view. Discarded syringes glinted under faint streetlights, their plastic bodies cracked and yellowed. The graffiti on the walls shifted from colorful tags to their gang's crude scrawls. An empty baggie fluttered near a corner, caught in a shallow puddle of oily water.
He narrowed his eyes. Further ahead, muffled voices—sharp, aggressive—broke the relative quiet. He slowed his steps, edging closer to the wall of a boarded-up shop to stay out of sight. His wand slipped smoothly into his hand.
A lone figure stood at the mouth of an alley, shifting his weight nervously. Hoodie up, hands in pockets, glancing around too often to be casual. A lookout.
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Michael narrowed his eyes as muffled voices—sharp, aggressive—broke the relative quiet. He slowed his steps, pressing his back against the wall of a boarded-up shop to stay out of sight. His hand slipped inside his cloak, fingers curling around the reassuring weight of his wand.
Further down the block, a lone figure stood at the mouth of an alley, shifting nervously. The hood of his jacket was pulled up, shadowing his face, but the way he constantly glanced over his shoulder gave him away. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, feet tapping faintly against the ground, the man was a picture-perfect lookout.
Michael's jaw tightened. A lookout meant something was happening just out of sight. His grip on his wand tightened as he tried to weigh his options.
His mind raced. Okay, okay. Definitely shady. Probably Merchants. But… I'm still in civvies. He glanced down at his outfit—a dark shirt and jeans under his cloak. Functional, but far from a cape's ensemble. If they see me like this, I'm not Arcane. I'm just some guy with a stick.
The thought made his stomach twist. He wasn't ready for this. Not fully. Not yet. But the muffled noises from the alley grew sharper—scuffling feet, a faint cry of protest—and hesitation melted into urgency.
Michael gritted his teeth. "Fine," he muttered, retreating into the shadows of a recessed doorway nearby. Disillusionment it is.
He raised his wand, aiming it at his own face, and whispered, "Disillusio."
The spell swept over him like a ripple of cold water. His skin tingled as the magic settled, bending light around his features. It wasn't invisibility—not by a long shot—but in the dim lighting, it distorted his face into something blurry, indistinct, and unnerving.
He peered at his reflection in a cracked windowpane. The dark alley and flickering streetlights made his distorted face look almost ghostly. Perfect.
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Michael slipped from the doorway, moving low and slow toward the lookout. The wand in his hand felt heavier than usual, every step a deliberate effort to stay silent.
The lookout leaned casually against the wall, oblivious to Michael's approach.
Michael raised his wand, taking a steadying breath. Stupefy.
The red beam of light lanced out, striking the lookout square in the chest. The man's head snapped back as his body crumpled, the faint thud of his fall masked by the ambient noises of the alley.
Michael froze, waiting to see if anyone deeper in the alley noticed.
Nothing. The muffled voices continued.
He crept closer, his steps nearly silent against the cracked pavement. The narrow walls of the alley framed the scene ahead—three figures surrounding a smaller one, their shapes barely lit by a distant flicker of a streetlight.
Michael crouched low behind a stack of crates near the alley's entrance, his heart pounding in his chest. "Just try it," one of the Merchants was saying, his tone oozing false kindness. "First hit's free, man. You're gonna love it, I swear."
The victim struggled harder. "I said no! Get off me!"
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Michael steadied his breathing, crouched low behind the crates. The voices ahead grew louder as the scene came into focus: two thugs holding a younger person down, the third brandishing a sickly green syringe that caught the light just enough to make it unmistakable.
Wait, is there an actual Drug Tinker in the Merchants? I thought that was just fanon. His heart sank. Definitely can't let these guys inject someone with Tinker drugs.
Michael rose just enough to aim his wand over the edge of the crate. The syringe guy was mid-threat, waving the needle in the victim's face. Michael pointed his wand at the glowing green abomination and hissed, Expelliarmus!
The syringe flew from the man's hand, clattering across the pavement.
"Shit! Cape!" one of the thugs yelled, dropping his grip on the victim and spinning toward Michael.
Michael sprang to his feet, firing two quick bursts of red light. Stupefy! Stupefy! The first hit dead center, the thug's body crumpling to the ground. The second thug lunged with a pipe, only to take the second Stunner in the chest and collapse mid-step.
Michael turned back to syringe guy, only to see him grabbing the victim by the shirt and hurling them forward like a human shield. The victim stumbled, falling to the ground, as the man dove behind a dumpster.
A glint of metal flashed.
Gun. Shit.
The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the alley's relative quiet. Michael threw himself behind the crates as bullets ripped through the air. One of the wild shots grazed the victim's shoulder, eliciting a cry of pain.
FUCK! Michael's brain screamed as adrenaline surged. He leaned out from cover, wand already trained. "Expelliarmus!" he roared.
The gun flew out of the thug's hand, skittering across the alley and slamming into the far wall.
The man didn't hesitate. He lunged for the weapon.
"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!"
Three Stunners burst from Michael's wand in rapid succession. The first two clipped the edge of the dumpster, but the third hit home. The thug's body jerked as he hit the ground in a heap.
Michael leaned heavily against the crates, panting as the adrenaline began to fade. His wand hand shook slightly as he pointed it at the downed thug. One more flash of red light ensured the guy wasn't faking unconsciousness.
"Double tap," Michael muttered. "Because no way am I doing this again tonight."
A faint groan pulled his attention. He turned to the victim, who was clutching their shoulder, blood seeping through their fingers.
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"Hey, you okay, man?" Michael asked as he hurried over, pulling a healing potion from his bandolier.
The figure turned, glaring up at him. "Man? Excuse you, I'm a woman."
Michael froze, blinking at her in the dim light. "Oh, uh... sorry. You okay, woman?" He cringed as the words left his mouth.
She rolled her eyes, wincing as she adjusted her grip on her injured arm. "Really nailed that one, Captain Sensitivity."
"Right, uh, here," Michael stammered, shaking off the awkwardness and uncorking the vial. "Drink this. It'll help."
The girl eyed the glowing liquid warily. "What is it? If it's more of whatever Tinker drugs those guys were peddling—"
"It's a healing potion," Michael interrupted. "Well, Tinker Dru- Drink. Yeah. Drink. Now drink it before I regret being a good Samaritan."
"Potion?," she said flatly, her expression skeptical.
"Look, either drink it or keep bleeding. I'm not going to argue this one."
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She snatched the vial from his hand and downed it in one go, coughing slightly as the warmth of the potion spread through her body. Her eyes widened as the wound on her shoulder knitted itself together in seconds.
"Oh, damn. That works." She flexed her arm, testing the range of motion. "You sure you're not one of the Merchants? This is way more effective than whatever they've been slinging."
Michael let out a tired laugh. "Yeah, because I'm totally a dude who fights them for market share."
"Well, you could be a rival supplier."
"I just saved your life!" Michael threw his hands up in exasperation.
"Fair point," she said, smirking. "Thanks, I guess. Still, weird cape with glowy potions? Feels shady."
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"Oi! I am a sort-of-hero-ish. Emphasis on the ish."
"Uh-huh," she said, crossing her arms. "Well, scary ghost cape dude, as much as I appreciate you saving my ass, I gotta get out of here before someone shows up with more syringes. Or guns."
"That's fair," Michael said, stepping aside to let her pass.
As she walked away, she called over her shoulder, "Seriously though, if those potions go on sale, let a girl know! Could make bank."
As her footsteps faded, his eyes drifted back to the alley. The unconscious thugs lay sprawled where they'd fallen, the faint glow of his wand casting sharp shadows across their crumpled forms. The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight began to ebb, leaving his legs shaky and his head buzzing.
He exhaled heavily, brushing a hand through his hair. "Right," he muttered, glancing toward the alley entrance to confirm the girl was gone. "Now what to do with you lot."
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Stepping closer, he crouched near the nearest thug, his wand still at the ready. Micheal cringed slightly as he rifled through the thug's jacket.
"Well," he muttered, shaking his head as he pulled out a crumpled bill. "It's not like you guys were going to use this for anything good."
The first two had wadded-up bills tucked into their grimy pockets—twenty bucks each. He rolled his eyes. "Seriously? This is your big criminal enterprise? Pocket change?"
The third guy, the one who had flailed around with a lead pipe, also only had a few bills stuffed haphazardly into his back pocket. Michael pocketed it all with a sigh before moving to the final thug. Syringe Guy had put up a better fight—or tried to, at least—and his pockets reflected it. A folded stack of crisp twenties totaled a hundred bucks.
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"Jackpot," Michael muttered, tucking the bills into his bandolier. "Well, relative jackpot. Still not exactly rolling in it."
Standing up, Michael dusted off his cloak and glanced around the dark alley. The thugs wouldn't stay unconscious forever, and someone needed to pick them up before they caused more trouble. He chewed the inside of his cheek, considering his options.
"Well," he said, pointing his wand skyward. "Nothing for it."
A sharp burst of light shot into the sky, red sparks fizzling like fireworks against the night. He nodded in satisfaction, lowering his wand. "Yeah, that should do it."
Then the realization hit him.
"Wait. Shit. EVERYONE saw that." His stomach dropped as he imagined not just the PRT but every Merchant, thug, or nosy civilian wondering what the hell had just happened. "Damn it, Michael."
He turned on his heel and sprinted toward the nearest exit, cloak flapping behind him as he disappeared into the shadows. His breath came in short gasps as he weaved through the maze of alleyways, muttering under his breath.
"Note to self: next time, less flashy. Or at least have an escape plan. Or better yet, just learn Apparition already!"
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Omake: The Alley Fight!
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There hasn't been enough silly so here have an Omake!
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The Library Roof
Arcane stood majestically atop the grotesque gargoyle that definitely wasn't there earlier. It loomed with dark gothic gravitas against the backdrop of Brockton Bay's night sky, much like Arcane himself. His cloak— billowing dramatically despite the distinct lack of wind—cast long, wavering shadows across the roof.
With a flick of his wand, a booming, ethereal choir began singing faintly in the background, harmonizing his impending declaration.
"Behold!" Arcane announced, standing on one leg because two legs felt insufficiently mysterious. "I am Arcane! Guardian of the magical mysteries! Avenger of aesthetic crimes! Defier of gravity and—"
"HELP!"
The cry tore through the air, shattering Arcane's soliloquy.
He froze, one arm still dramatically raised, his wand glowing faintly with self-important approval. "A cry for help?" He stroked an imaginary beard for a moment. "Perhaps a maiden? Or a spirited young scholar? No matter, for duty calls!"
With a thunderous CRACK that sounded like it had been stolen straight from a bad movie's sound effects reel, the gargoyle beneath him exploded into a cloud of glittering stars as Arcane leapt into the air. His wand wove an intricate pattern, and he disappeared with a flash.
"TO JUSTICE!" his voice boomed from nowhere, echoing ominously in the distance.
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The Alley
Arcane rematerialized in the alley, his arrival heralded by swirling black mist, crackling thunder, and possibly the faint scent of lavender. The effect was, as always, deeply unnecessary but undeniably impressive.
The alley was crawling with villains. Ten of them, give or take reality's sense of proportion. Each one snarled or leered, brandishing weapons and sneering like extras in a movie who weren't being paid enough to do this seriously.
Before them cowered a single innocent citizen. The damsel—or strapping lad, Arcane couldn't quite tell yet—looked up with wide, terrified eyes.
Arcane straightened, his boots clicking with dramatic authority against the cobblestones. (Were there cobblestones here before? Maybe. They certainly were now.) The air around him swirled with unseen power.
"Villains!" he bellowed, pointing his wand at them with such force that the nearest dumpster shook. A flock of startled pigeons exploded into the air in a totally unrelated part of the city.
The lead thug squinted at him. "Who the hell are you?"
Arcane flourished his wand in an elaborate loop, and inexplicably, a phoenix made entirely of blue flames burst from its tip, circling the alley before dissipating into fireworks. He clutched his chest as though mortally offended.
"WHO AM I?" he roared, and the earth beneath him cracked dramatically. "I AM ARCANE! MASTER OF THE ARCANE ARTS! THE BEACON OF JUSTICE! THE BRINGER OF—oh, hold on."
With a flick of his wrist, a dazzling chandelier appeared midair, hanging precariously over the alley. It swung gently as the dim light from it cast dramatic shadows over everything.
"...WHERE WAS I?"
The lead thug gawked at him. "You're... what? Decorating? Are you—?"
"QUIET!" Arcane thundered, his voice reverberating like someone had cranked up a megaphone with reverb. He jabbed his wand skyward, and a constellation in the shape of a roaring dragon flickered into existence above them. The sky turned crimson, because why not.
The lookout shuffled nervously. "Dude, he just changed the sky. What the hell?"
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The Duel
The thugs hesitated for only a moment before the leader barked, "GET HIM!"
"Ah, finally," Arcane said, his grin widening into something maniacal. He twirled his wand in an exaggerated spiral, trails of glittering sparks following its motion. "Time to unleash my arsenal of devastation!"
The villains charged forward, but Arcane was already moving, his wand carving loops of light in the air as he unleashed a whirlwind of spells.
"Jelly Legs Jinx!" he bellowed, and three thugs promptly collapsed, their legs wobbling like spaghetti. One tried to stand, only to immediately faceplant into a pile of trash. "Ha! Marvel at your newfound expertise in interpretive dance!"
"Bat-Bogey Hex!" Arcane roared, pointing at a particularly burly thug. The man screamed as his nose erupted into an unholy swarm of screeching, flapping horrors. "Yes, yes, flail in terror! Let the bat-bogeys remind you that no one escapes the consequences of bad decisions!"
"WHAT IS THIS?!" the man yelled, slapping at his face.
Another thug raised a gun, firing wildly at Arcane.
"Protego Totalum!" Arcane shouted, summoning a shimmering barrier. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly into a nearby fire escape ladder, which promptly transformed into a flurry of startled doves. They scattered into the night with offended coos.
"Why are there doves?!" one thug shrieked, tripping over a trash can as the flock descended upon him.
"BECAUSE I DECIDED THERE SHOULD BE!" Arcane bellowed, his wand spinning theatrically.
Another thug charged with a crowbar, yelling, "Take this, you magic weirdo!"
Arcane flicked his wand with mock boredom. "Levicorpus." The thug stopped mid-swing as he was suddenly yanked into the air by his ankle, dangling helplessly like an angry piñata.
"PUT ME DOWN!" the thug roared, flailing upside down.
"Certainly." Arcane raised his wand higher, the thug spinning faster and faster like an amusement park ride gone terribly wrong. "Down when you've learned your lesson!"
Meanwhile, one thug was frantically trying to escape down the alley, only to freeze as Arcane's wand tracked him like a spotlight.
"Locomotor Garbage Cans!" Arcane commanded, and several trash cans lurched into the air, their lids snapping open and shut like mechanical jaws.
"THAT'S NOT EVEN A REAL SPELL!" the thug screamed, narrowly avoiding a chomping garbage can as he scrambled away.
"IT IS WHEN I SAY IT IS!" Arcane thundered, his voice echoing as though the universe itself had decided his melodrama warranted amplification.
The garbage cans chased the thug in circles, snapping at his heels. One managed to trap his shoe, dragging him backward with triumphant determination.
The leader of the gang, now visibly panicked, shouted, "Everybody stop freaking out! He's just one guy with a stick!"
Arcane turned to him slowly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "A stick?" His voice dropped to a low, ominous rumble.
The gang leader paled. "Uh... I mean... a very nice stick?"
"Oppugno!" Arcane snarled, sending a swarm of animated pigeons swooping down from nowhere.
"NOT THE PIGEONS!" the leader yelled, flailing as feathers and beaks overwhelmed him.
Arcane stood in the middle of the chaos, his wand still glowing brightly as spells rained down on the hapless villains. He smirked, brushing an invisible speck of dust off his cloak.
"You should have heeded the warning, villains," he declared, raising his wand one last time. "For no one escapes the might of Arcane!"
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Lung Arrives, Because Why Not
The temperature in the alley skyrocketed, and a guttural roar reverberated through the chaos. Arcane turned on his heel, his cloak swirling dramatically as he faced the source.
"Ah, the cavalry arrives," he mused, stroking his chin like a villain in a Shakespearean play.
Through the haze of magical glitter and scattered trash cans, Lung strode forward. Flames danced along his skin, casting long, flickering shadows against the alley walls. His eyes burned with fury, and smoke curled ominously from his nostrils as he cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like the punctuation of doom.
"You think your parlor tricks scare me, wizard?" Lung growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Arcane tilted his head, feigning deep contemplation. "No," he admitted, pointing his wand at the ground near Lung's feet. Sparks and arcs of energy danced along its tip. "But I think this will."
With a flourish, he jabbed his wand downward. "The Ultimate Curse: EXTENDED TICKLING HEX!"
The ground beneath Lung's feet shimmered with a golden glow, pulsating ominously. Lung paused, his eyes narrowing as he took an instinctive step back.
"What nonsense is this?" Lung began, his voice heavy with skepticism.
The golden light burst into a kaleidoscope of glitter, swirling upward like a magical disco ball gone rogue. Suddenly, Lung's entire body jerked. His lips twitched. His chest heaved. Then—
"HAHAHAHA!" The mighty dragon-man doubled over, clutching his sides. "WHAT—HAHAHA—IS THIS?!"
Arcane casually leaned on his wand like a dashing rogue with absolutely no regard for the laws of physics. "Oh, just justice," he said, raising one eyebrow, "and maybe an excellent ab workout."
Lung dropped to his knees, his fiery aura flickering as his body convulsed with laughter. His claws scraped at the ground as he tried, and failed, to regain his composure. "STOP—HAHAHA—STOP THIS MADNESS!"
"I would," Arcane said, twirling his wand between his fingers, "but it's called the Extended Tickling Hex for a reason."
Lung's roaring laughter echoed down the alley, punctuated by the occasional wheeze and hiccup. Sparks of flame puffed from his mouth every time he tried to growl, only to be replaced by uncontrollable giggles.
The remaining thugs—those not already incapacitated by trash cans or pigeons—stared in wide-eyed horror.
"Did he... did he just make Lung laugh?" one muttered.
Another thug whimpered, backing away. "We're doomed. He's a monster."
Arcane stepped closer, his cloak billowing as though caught in an invisible, overly dramatic wind. "You see, Lung," he intoned, his voice dipping into gravelly intensity, "true power isn't measured in fire or strength." He gestured at the still-glowing magical circle beneath Lung. "It's measured in how ridiculous you can make your enemies look while defeating them."
Lung glared at him through tears of laughter, his hands twitching as he tried to summon flames. "HAHA—YOU WILL—HAHAHA—PAY FOR THIS!"
Arcane stepped back, raising his wand high. "And now, for my most powerful move yet..." He paused for effect, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Accio Nimbus 2000."
From seemingly nowhere, a sleek broomstick shot into his hand, its polished wood glinting in the dim light. Arcane leaped onto it, striking a pose like a superhero crossing the threshold of a comic book cover.
"This isn't over!" Lung roared between giggles, flames sputtering weakly around him.
"Oh, it most certainly is," Arcane said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must depart to write this into my memoirs."
With that, he kicked off, the broom zooming upward in a spiral of glitter and sparks, leaving behind an alley of dumbfounded thugs, a laughing Lung, and pigeons still pecking at the remains of everyone's dignity.
Above the city, Arcane cackled into the night, his silhouette framed against the now-permanently crimson sky. "I AM ARCANE! MASTER OF MAYHEM AND REALLY GOOD TIMING!"