Eol Fefalas Keeper of the Kazari RDI Staff Karma: 465/28 8566 Posts
Stories from Scyon City
Intro - Samael (Part 1)
The Synclar Estate - Eight Months ago
“Are you sure about this, Sam,” Alyeria Synclar sighed, her eyes turning toward the lights of Scyon City shimmering beyond the Queens River, “You know you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you’d like.”
“I know, Aly,” came the reply over the faint rustling of feathers and the muted padding of bare feet on the marble terrace, “You’ve told me as much, more than once, today...”
At the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder, Aly sighed, again, tore her gaze from the city lights and turned it to the winged man standing at her side. The sadness she felt was mirrored back to her in Sam’s own smile and the gleam of his ice-hued eyes as they peered at her from behind the messy spill of his raven-black hair.
“...but I’m afraid I’ve stayed too long already, and I’d hate for the trouble that follows me to find its way to your door.
You’ve done so much for me in these past months, little sister, and I can no more ask you to do anything else than I can remain hidden away in your guest house.” Sam gestured to the distant skyline with the tip of the spear he carried, then, and both of their eyes followed. “I feel I need to be there,” he continued softly, “Something calls to me… tells me that, somehow, that’s where I’m needed… where my presence won’t bring you trouble that you don’t deserve.”
“I can hold my own against any trouble that might come,” Aly protested, “I have security, walls, resources…”
Sam shook his head, forestalling anything she might say next. “Those things are for you, Alyeria, for your family. They’re not meant to guard against any difficulties that I might bring and, as I’ve told you, Anatashia is not the sort of trouble that anyone can truly be prepared for. It’s best that I go… for both of us.”
The weak smile Aly offered, then, did little to mask her disappointment but she refused to let it falter into a frown. “But where will you stay,” she asked, “what will you do?”
“I’ll find a place,” Sam answered with a faint shrug that set the feathers of his wings to rustling, “Somewhere quiet. Out of the way.” His hand fell away from her shoulder, then, and he smiled at her as his bare feet carried him a step closer to the edge of the terrace. “As to what I’ll do,” he continued, his wings beginning to unfurl, “I’ll watch. Learn. Remember. Maybe even help?”
As the massive, obsidian colored wings began to lift Sam from the ground, Aly pushed her way forward through the wind they generated and reached out a hand. “Will… will you come back,” she asked, squinting slightly against the tears that had begun to well in her eyes as Sam’s fingers folded over hers.
“Of course, I will,” Sam smiled softly, “I owe you my life, after all. I’ll never be far away, little sister.”
Despite that promise, Aly was still reluctant to let go of the winged man’s hand, and drew the moment out by scanning him with an appraising gaze. He was in much better shape than he had been when she’d found him a year ago - she had originally thought him to be dead when she’d discovered his body crumpled at the edge of the property - and he wore his bits and pieces of armor over a pair of jeans and a black Halestorm t-shirt, now, rather than the tattered toga like garment she’d found him in. When her eyes made it to where his toes hover just inches from the ground, though, she smirked and, then, chuckled as her gaze lifted to meet his, once more. “Are you sure you don’t want a pair of shoes, at least?”
Sam offered another faint shake of his head, smiling in return as he let her fingers slip from his. “You’ve already given me more than enough, Aly.”
“Yeah?” she said, her hand falling back to her side, “Well, you look ridiculous!”
Sam chuckled at that and, with a beat of his wings, climbed a bit higher toward the sky. “Ridiculous or not,” he called over another beat, “I’ll see you soon, Aly. Remember, I’m never far.”
“Not soon enough,” Aly sighed, folding her arms across her chest as she watched him climb higher and, then, wing his way east toward the lights of Scyon City. “Be careful out there, Sam.”
Posted on 2020-06-14 at 12:19:26.
Edited on 2020-06-15 at 14:31:53 by Eol Fefalas
“Amazing!” exclaimed one of the men in a white lab coat, jotting down notes on a clip board, as fast as his pudgy little fingers could fly with pen in hand, across the secret document. “Simply Amazing!”
“That makes Seven manifestations of his former Code Names!” chimed in another.
The others nodded their heads in agreement.
Several minutes of excited comments and theories were exchanged with one another among the group, before a tell-tale warning light and alarm began to sound from the interior of the containment cell.
The onlookers witnessed once again an all-too-familiar scenario, as an electromagnetic disturbance within the sedated subject mounted to ever-alarming levels!
Just as it seemed as if the imprisoned man was about to break free of his bonds, a soft burst of gas enveloped the containment cell, resulting in the prisoner slowly slipping back into a docile state!
“That should immobilize him for an hour or two,” stated one of the onlookers, “so we may as well reconvene later after we all have had a bite to eat and updated our notes.”
The group mumbled and nodded their heads in agreement, as they began to disperse and go their separate ways.
“Miss Foster!” exclaimed an older scientific-looking gentleman with an I-pad under his arm.
The shapely 5’4” brunette in a matching white lab coat stopped, then spun around on her high heels with an inquisitive look on her eyebrows.
“Are you sure this assignment to observe Preston Smith is not an unpleasant experience? I do understand that you were once close out on the field.”
Her face flushed a bit at the remembrance.
“I assure you sir,” she responded, “that there is nowhere else I would rather be assigned.”
“Very good,” was the clinical response. “Carry on.”
The young woman smiled and nodded, before making her way through a series of labyrinths and tunnels. When she was satisfied that no one was following, she let herself into an unassuming room that was hidden from the view of the security cameras.
“How did it go today Myriem?”
Gunther ‘Gunny’ Morgan had a grim expression on his face.
“We must get him out of here as soon as possible Gunny!” was her agitated reply.
“The three of us have been in some tight spots before,” replied Gunny.
“That was before!” snapped Myriem.
Gunny stepped forward and embraced her with a reassuring hug.
“I finally found Dweeb,” he whispered in her ear. “He has agreed to help us!”
Location: Unknown Holding Facility
Myriem Foster quietly made her way down the corridor, making sure she was not followed, while staying in the shadows beneath the poorly aimed cameras and their line of visual perception.
Gunny had done his job well, disabling and scrambling the video feeds, allowing the shapely 5’4” brunette to enter the quarantine room without any trace of her entrance.
Preston Smith was bound and sedated, but his powers were barely contained by the restraints.
Myriem cautiously approached the prisoner, searching for any signs of recognition in his eyes as she approached him with her casual sway, purring the ‘Code Names’ in an effort to get a response.
“Orator … this is Scarlet … Winston is standing by!”
“Preacher … this is Psalmist … Deacon is standing by!”
“Brawler … this is Doll … Irish is standing by!
Still No Response.
“Flynn … this is Olivia … Red is standing by!
“Thespian … this is Juliette … Hamlet is standing by!”
Still No Response.
“Earp … this is Annie … Doc is standing by!”
There seemed to be a momentary flicker of recognition, but No Response.
“Rocker … this is Groupie … Roadie is standing by!”
Myriem could hardly contain her excitement, but she was a professional.
“Groupie … I Need You … To Find Dweeb!”
“Roadie is working on that Rocker!”
“I Need Dweeb!”
Myriem reassured the immobilized Preston Smith that Gunny was searching for Dweeb, before pressing her former lover for answers as to who had triggered the bomb blast at the tent revival that had killed his wife and fractured his personae into the Code Names the Agency had assigned him years ago.
“Did you see who did this to you Rocker?”
“Yes Groupie! I Saw Her Standing There!”
Preston Smith drew in a deep breath in thoughtful remembrance, before answering:
Posted on 2020-06-15 at 19:14:08.
Edited on 2020-06-15 at 19:37:20 by Hammer
Eol Fefalas Keeper of the Kazari RDI Staff Karma: 465/28 8566 Posts
The Birdman of Bay View Island
St Sebastian’s Cathedral; Bay View Island, Scyon City - Present
The tallest steeple of St Sebastian’s could not come close to the height of even the most average of skyscrapers sprouting from the sprawl of Scyon City and, yet, from the lantern of that steeple, nestled between its belfry and the spire, one could be afforded a most breathtaking view of metropolis’ skyline, the rivers that encircled it, and the Atlantic Ocean into which those rivers emptied. For most of the years that Father Thomas Chapman had spent living in St Sebastian’s rectory and serving the diocese, he had also stolen precious moments of his own, each evening, to climb the tower, enjoy the views provided rom the lantern, and marvel at the intricate detail of the lanterns pillars, each carved to represent one of four archangels. As of several months ago, however, when Father Chapman took his early evening sojourns into the tower, he had begun to encounter five angels rather than four, and one of them appeared to be wrought of living flesh as opposed to stone.
The first encounter with that fifth angel had been fleeting enough that the old priest wasn’t entirely sure that it hadn’t all been a trick of sunlight and shadow on his aging eyes. Reaching the top of the stair that led up from the belfry, his gaze had fallen on a shadowy figure, standing between Gabriel and Raphael, that appeared to be staring out over the city. The surprised sound that escaped Chapman’s lips seemed to have startled the unexpected visitor, though, and before the priest could recapture the breath the sight had stolen from him, that fifth angel disappeared in a flash of light and the flapping sound of its great black wings. The next few meetings were much the same; a glimpse, a glance, a flash, and the angel was gone. It was only after a couple of weeks of these ephemeral encounters that the priest had decided to alter his approach…
“If you’re there, my friend,” Father Chapman called out imploringly even before reaching the top of the stairs, “please, don’t be afraid. I bear you no ill will, I would simply like to talk to you…” The priest balanced the tray he was carrying precariously on the palm of one hand and reached out to open the door to the lantern with the other. “...And I’ve brought food… if you’re hungry.” The door swung open and, as the priest regained a more solid, two-handed grip on the tray, his gaze swept the lantern's interior.
The four stone-worked angels were just where he expected. There stood Michael with his sword, shield, and scales. Then Gabriel; trumpet and lantern in hand and a scroll tucked into the folds of his garment. Next, there was Raphael, with his staff and bottle. Finally, Uriel, the fire in the palm of his right hand illuminating the book he bore in his left, but, to Father Chapman’s disappointment, the fifth angel, the one made of flesh, the one with wings the color of the night sky, was nowhere to be found. A dejected sigh blew past Chapman’s lips and his shoulders slumped a bit as he padded across the floor of the lantern to set the tray on the lintel between Michael and Gabriel.
“I had hoped you would be here,” the priest murmured as he blinked out over the bay, “That we could speak long enough for me to, at least, learn your name.
I thought, perhaps, the Almighty had revealed you to me so that you might deliver some divine message,” he chuckled softly and shook his head, “Hubris on the part of a foolish old man, I suppose. Still, I…”
Father Chapman’s musings were interrupted, then, by the muted popping sound of wings stroking the air. A faint gust of wind stirred by those wings blew across the priest’s back and, over the rustling of feathers, a gentle voice said; “I am called Samael.”
A delighted smile touched the corners of Chapman’s mouth and sparked in his grey-green eyes as he turned toward the source of the sound. His smile widened all the more when his gaze fell upon the figure that stood, now, between Raphael and Uriel. The angel was tall and slender, with long, wavy hair that matched the color of his wings and, from behind which, a pair of piercing, ice-blue eyes seemed to peer directly into Chapman’s soul. Samael was clad in a pair of faded jeans and a too large t-shirt over which were strapped bits and pieces of tarnished silver armor and, in his right hand, he carried a gleaming spear which looked as if it had seen many more years than the man who bore it.
“Samael,” an awed Father Chapman repeated, almost in a whisper, as he blinked at the apparition. He found the strength of his voice again, though, as he took a few tentative steps toward the creature. “Hello, Samael,” he returned, suddenly thinking better of approaching and stopping in his tracks, “I’ve been hoping to meet you for some time. I’m Father Chapman… Thomas Chapman… a priest, here, at St Sebastian’s.”
Still standing almost motionless between the effigies of Raphael and Uriel, the angel nodded faintly; “Hello, Thomas.”
Tears of joy had begun to well in Father Chapman’s eyes and he almost felt compelled to fall to his knees. In fact, the compulsion was so strong that he actually felt his knees begin to buckle for an instant but managed to stay them and remain upright. “W-where have you come from, Samael,” he asked after a moment, “has my Lord sent you from Heaven with a message for me… for… for the world?”
There was something almost bird-like in the way Samael’s head canted to one side as a vague look of confusion crossed his features. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” the angel answered as he finally stepped off the lintel and his bare feet touched the floor of the lantern, “I don’t know your Lord… or where Heaven might be. I… you said you brought food and…”
“Oh,” Father Chapman blinked, his own visage taking on a slightly bewildered expression, now, “Oh! Yes! Of course!” The priest turned, somehow hesitant to take his eyes from the visitor, yet, eager to take up the tray he had brought. “It’s not much, just some leftovers from a potluck supper we had tonight,” he apologized as he removed the cloth he had covered the tray with to reveal a plate of baked ziti, a green salad, a piece of bread, and a coffee mug half-filled with red wine, “but, if you’re hungry, you are more than welcome to it.” When he turned around to motion Samael closer, the angel was already standing within arms reach, looking eagerly past Chapman at the humble repast he had offered.
Samael tore his gaze from the food and offered a slow, almost shy smile as he nodded in answer. “I am hungry,” he admitted, “Thank you, Thomas.”
...Since that night, nearly six months ago, now, Father Chapman had entertained regular visits from Samael and, over many weeks, many plates of “potluck,” and ever longer conversations, had come to know the-angel-who-had-no-idea-what-an-angel-was quite well. He had learned of Samael’s horrific suffering at the hands of a man (or monster?) named Anatashia, heard the brutal tale of his escape from Anatashia’s Carnival and Mystical Menagerie, and then, simpler, more mundane but certainly happier stories of the woman name Aly who, for what sounded like nearly a year, had given him shelter and, more importantly, friendship that he seemed to have never known from another human.
Even those happier tales, though, seemed somehow tinged with sadness, as Samael had explained that he had left Aly’s care and company in hopes of sparing her, should Anatashia find him again. From what Father Chapman understood, Samael still visited Aly from time to time but, now, made his “home”, such as it was, in the peaks and pinnacles of Scyon City’s skyline and, since that first plate of lukewarm ziti, the angel’s preferred roost had quickly become this very tower. In recent months, though, Samael seemed to have exhausted any stories of his past, and their conversations had turned more toward the angel’s recounting of visits with Aly or, more frequently, his thoughts on things he had seen or done in the time he spent simply flying over the city and watching it’s citizens go about their lives.
A short time ago, Samael had begun asking questions about Scyon City’s premier superhero, Dragonfly, and, for a while, their conversations had been focused on the topic. While Samael seemed to have trouble understanding the concept of what a superhero was, he was fascinated by what she did and frequently praised her efforts and exploits. It wasn’t long after that Samael came to the conclusion that that was why he’d felt called to the city and, in his own way, had begun to emulate Dragonfly’s stewardship of the city and its people. As such, in recent weeks, rumors of a “birdman,” swooping out of the sky to stop a mugging, snatch a burglar from a fire-escape, or simply heal the scraped knee of a child who had fallen in the park, had begun to buzz through Scyon City’s streets.
As he climbed the belltower, tonight, Father Chapman couldn’t help but chuckle, imagining what Samael’s reaction might be to what the priest had to tell him. Chapman, himself, was so excited by the anticipated response that he found it difficult to not repeatedly touch the newspaper he’d placed on tonight’s tray just to ensure that it hadn’t disappeared. Reaching the top of the stairs, Father Chapman pushed the door open and stepped into the lantern. Even before his gaze found Samael, his excitement got the better of him and he called out; “Well, my friend, you certainly seem to be making a name for yourself!”
From where he leaned against the statue of Michael, Samael cast a pale-eyed gaze over his shoulder and wing at the priest and offered a bashful smile. “Oh?” he said, pushing away from Michael and turning to sit on the lintel.
“Most certainly,” the priest nodded, excitedly plunking the tray onto Samael’s lap, unceremoniously tearing the cloth from the tray, and snatching up the newspaper that lay alongside the supper. He was so eager to get the paper unfolded that he nearly tore it in half before he could turn it around and point to a headline that read “The Birdman of Bay View Island: Is There an Angel in Scyon City?”
“That’s you,” Chapman beamed.
“Hmm,” Samael said, his head tipping slightly to one side as he glanced at the headline. Then, with a faint smile, he took up the fork from the tray and dug into the slice of quiche next to it. “I remember that,” he said between bites, “That man dragged her into that alley. It didn’t seem as if she wanted to go. When he hit her, I snatched him up and dropped him in the bay.”
He shrugged, the feathers of his wings ruffling slightly, then smiled and gestured to the tray of food in his lap with the fork. “I really do like this potluck, Thomas,” he said, scooping up a bit of pasta salad, “It’s different every time.”
Posted on 2020-06-17 at 11:49:13.
Edited on 2020-06-17 at 12:20:37 by Eol Fefalas
Myriem was all excited to tell Gunny the good news, once they were in a safe and secluded enclave, safe from prying eyes and listening ears.
“Preston spoke to me in code!”
“What did he say?”
“He sang some lyrics from one of our old code songs!”
“What was the code message?” asked Gunny as he hung on every breathless word that Myriem could manage to convey through her excitement.
“I saw her today at the reception!” exclaimed Myriem.
“That means he saw the agent at the Tent Revival,” deciphered Gunny.
“In her glass was a bleeding man!”
“That means he saw she had a bomb in her hand.”
“She was practiced in the art of deception!
“Well I could tell by her blood-stained hands!”
“He Knows Who She Is!” exclaimed Gunny.
Location: Unknown Holding Facility
The same white lab coats were all huddled around the seemingly immobilized Preston Smith in an effort to engage him in any kind of conversation that would enlighten them as to the true condition of the incarcerated agent, but Preston merely displayed a tight-lipped smile.
These white lab coats had finally determined that pumping their subject full of various drugs was nothing but a dead-end street, because Preston merely retreated into some unknown realm, enjoying the psychedelic ride without revealing what was going on inside his multi-faceted brain!
They only made headway these past few days when Myriem Foster was allowed to be present in the full view of their subject, which encouraged Preston to engage in some kind of conversation that the white lab coats were frantically trying to decipher … to make some sort of clinical sense to their scientific minds, but they were failing miserably in every attempt they made these past few days!
Finally, the white lab coats stepped back in frustration, encouraging Myriem Foster to make contact with Preston in her own seemingly peculiar way. Her first attempt this day was met with success!
“Thespian … this is Juliette … Hamlet is standing by!”
“Lord, what fools these mortals be!” exclaimed Preston as he quoted a familiar line from the classic theatre. [‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ Act 1, Scene 1]
“Splendid. Just Splendid Ms Foster,” was the response from an over-eager white lab coat who drew too close to Preston, causing the seemingly immobilized subject to glare at the white lab coat with disdain!
“If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” [‘The Merchant of Venice’ Act 3, Scene 1]
This unexpected response caused the white lab coat to retreat from the perceived threat that was strapped to the table.
Myriem drew closer to Preston with a knowing look in her eyes … her hand instinctively reaching out to warmly touch his hand.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” [‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ Act 1, Scene 1]
Myriem started to say something, but held her peace.
“I am one who loved not wisely but too well.” [‘Othello’ Act 5, Scene 2]
Myriem leaned forward and began whispering a response to Preston that only he could hear.
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” [‘Hamlet’ Act 3, Scene 2]
Another one of the white lab coats grew impatient with the proceedings, stepping forward with a scowl as he began berating the seemingly meaningless conversation between the two lovers.
Focusing his attention back to the white lab coats and this intruder in particular, the Thespian code name retorted:
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.” [‘As You Like It’ Act 2, Scene 7]
All the white lab coats began murmuring among themselves, as the Thespian code-name personae called out to them in derision: “Now is the winter of our discontent.” [‘Richard III’ Act 1, Scene 1]
The white lab coats stopped their conversing and glared at Preston and Myriem holding hands.
Preston merely stared back at them, saying, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” [‘Julius Caesar’ Acts 2, Scene 2]
Myriem leaned in closer to Preston, before any of the white lab coats could protest her sudden and unexpected movement towards their seemingly subdued subject.
“Preston our ‘Rock Manager’ says ‘The Rag Tag Band’ is back together again and he has secured a new ‘Recording Studio’ to start making some music together!”
Although Preston realized the implication of her words, he merely responded, “If music be the food of love play on.” [‘Twelfth Night’ Act 1, Scene 1]
One of the white lab coats stepped forward, but not too close to the two lovers, before admonishing rather sternly to Myriem to “Kindly Step Away From Our Subject Please!”
Myriem looked to Preston for any indication that he understood what she had spoken to him in code.
His only response being, “Get thee to a nunnery.” [‘Hamlet’ Act 3, Scene 1]
Refusing to acknowledge either the response of Preston or the orders from the whiter lab coats, Myriem Foster rushed back to the seemingly secure subject on the lab table, blurting out to her lover:
“Rocker … this is Groupie … Roadie is standing by”
Preston could see one of the white lab coats getting more fidgety by the second, while another one opened the door and motioned for security personnel to enter the lab to take charge of the situation!
“Beware the Ides of March.” [‘Julius Caesar’ Act 1, Scene 2]
Myriem took her cue from the spoken code, but managed to whisper to her lover, “Roadie has all the equipment ready for our next gig!”
The white lab coats had seen enough, motioning for security to remove Myriem from the lab!
“Cry ‘havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war!” [‘Julius Caesar’ Act 3, Scene 1]
Preston began struggling with his bonds as the security guards tried to force Myriem from the lab against her consent, while the white lab coats tried to respond to their struggling subject with various outcries of what to do!
In the midst of the confusion, Myriem began singing her distress code, in hopes of reaching Rocker to activate his powers!
youtube.com/watch?v=5NuofNHKbVc [Editors Note: Not Showing a Link so Just Copy & Paste in Another Window]
One of the white lab coats rushed forward to restrain the struggling subject, mouthing words to the effect of: “Now Preston … or Thespian … or Who Ever You Are …”
But his words were drowned out by a shout from the seemingly restrained subject:
“MY NAME IS CALLED DISTURBANCE!” … almost simultaneously in unison with the sounds of an explosion in the middle of a wall at the far end of the lab!
Aly looked out of her window and a sigh left her lips. It had been awhile since she called him but she didn’t want to bug him while he figured out his next step. Instead she grabbed her coat, walked towards her front door, and after locking it, mounted her bike and started it. Putting on her helmet she lets a sigh leave her lips as she pulls out of her driveway and onto the road.
Moving expertly between traffic, she was heading.. she didn’t know where but she was shocked when a cathedral came into her line of sight, sighing once more she turned down the street before the Cathedral. She didn’t need to bug him, didn’t even know if he was there. Instead she drove back to her house and sat at her desk tapping on the table idly. She could feel the tiredness creep into her mind.
“For a second… just for a second.. “ she murmured to herself as she rested her head upon her folded arms on her desk, her eyes slipping closed.. in what she hopes was only a second.
A new mural of candyman has appeared in a high crime area inside the ghetto where the police let the inhabitants control and police themselves, Bloods, Crips and BGF ( Black gorilla family operate in these areas. But something has changed, someone is trying to summon the Candyman but that is just stories that frighten the kids to behave. Old black folk talk about Candyman as far back and the very early 1900s and its documented but Elvis and ufo are too so who really knows.
Where Crawford and Crippen st cross, on the side of the old 5 and dime story is a giant mural dedicated to Candyman. It just appeared overnight, no one saw anything but that isn't the strangest part. Two youths that were 11 and 14 seemed to age overnight, the two went to sleep in the morning after staying up and out late at night on a school night and woke up as old men.
you can't make these things up... The two boys when physically aged to the age of someone in the age of their 70s. So why is this important in this story?. The two boys that night vandalized an old folks home, broke in and took things to sell. The former teens confessed to the crime and wish to mend their ways to hopefully be restored, they were told in a dream to suffer from the sins of their crimes against the elderly, they were to do community service till the elderly forgave them.
Well so much for old wives tales eh?.
In other news of a "browner" side was immigrants sleeping in the field break new harvest record in the county, They say it was their faith in "the scarecrow" that protects their field that they harvest during the day and nights. Crime and sexual abuse among the immigrants has taken a very sharp decline in the past year after members of a new death cult worship this false god called "scarecrow". Stories that sometimes a scarecrow will jump down from the perch and walk the fields as the believers sleep in place as they haven't during the hot summer times or sleep in the daylight under tents.
Hotel Baltimore aka hot_L Baltimore ( Neon sign still doesn't work)
Ellie May Harrington sits by her window and watches progress pass her by as she waits for the taxi to take her to the worst hospital in the city, county general. But she has a new faith and that is to give an offering to this devil, for she wants to live and live, she must pay the devil his due. Now Ms. Harrington after she widowed by her third husband from the longshoreman unions. She was forced to move to this new hell hole. Ms. Harrington is a good devout Christian woman to point, the point was... She wanted to live a bit longer.
They say God has a plan, but Cancer changed that plan and in a horrible way. The taxi came to take her, she gathered her things and locked the door behind her, her bag was heavy, so the driver took it for her.
A skull-shaped radio spilled out and the driver picked it up. “ Ms Harrington, is this yours?” He asked. Ms. Harrington laughed “No child, that just my grandbabies radio, cute isn’t it?”. She replied, “you know that that say that that devil thing, listens and can talk through the radio and that is how he comes, he speaks through these radios, did you want me to dispose of it?” “child I have the armor of God, I fear nothing, I’ll handle my grandbaby later but I will not throw her things away, she will take the trash out herself, child” Mused Ms. Harriongton.
The ride was quick, the staff unseen as the hospital is overworked and understaffed. She checked herself in and waited patiently till it was her turn, then taken to triage, then back to the waiting room, till a bed opened up for her.
Hours had passed and she was getting eager to go to bed. The room was bland and the service wasn’t the best but it was all that people had. It was a shared room two in one room. The nurse closed the blinds for her, reminded her that she could eat but she could drink and in the morning have ice chips before surgery. She laid her things out and the sugar skull radio that was turned to KDAY ( home to old school hip-hop and Latino rap stars ) The night vocals was Kevin James aka the quiet storm, he played love ballads and late-night request to the incarcerated across the river. Funny how the correction facility ending near The Fens, was it to remind the insidious populace their fates?.
Ms. Harrington read her bible for a bit before turning on the sugar skull to a different station, it was static, faint but people say they can sometimes hear the voices of their loved ones if you listened carefully. Ms Harrigton lost her only son just a few days ago and his body lay downstairs in the morgue till the country will take the body o be laid to rest.
She took a cigar, lit the cigar and laid it near the window so the nurse, if she bothered, to give reason to intrude in the room. Next was the devil’s own brew called “ Crown royal” they say “It “ favors this drink and would surely come. Finally, a freshly dead whole and complete chicken.
She lit candles around the room, her roommate was fast asleep by now as Ms. Harrington carried these tasks about. Finally several recent photos of her only son. The candles flickered and danced with the devil’s flame. She could feel something was near but she was too scared to turn around.
“ Are you real?” She asked
The Cuban cigar’s smoke evolved here from the back “ I exist “ It spoke, she could hear it gulp down the alcohol and place the glass down, again the smoke evolves her.
“ They say... “
“ I know why you grieve widow, I can feel your pain from the Otherside”
She began to cry...
“ No time to cry” It spoke and she felt like she was more in control of her emotions or was ..it controlling her emotions?
She couldn’t be sure. “ I miss them both so much”
“Are you ready?”
“ Take me” She turned to see it's neon blue eyes, skeletal face of something long dead, and as she began to gasp.
She could see nothing, IT was gone. But wait something was different, she could feel...she picked up the cigar and placed it in her mouth from the floor, but she couldn’t stop. Her body didn’t obey her, it was like she was a back seat driver. “ Relax, I just need to do a few things “ It spoke to her mentally.
“You can hear me?”
“ No yells, rule number 6..” it spoke mentally. She was quiet and watched both in horror and awe as when she passed the mirror she saw it but..how?. It turned to open the curtain of the other roommate. “Thank you, Vessel” it spoke to the sleeping Hispanic woman with a radio and earplugs connected to her, and IT admired the statue of itself for a bit. The creature moved to pick up the phone and dialed a number. “What are you doing?” She asked “ Body jacking, now... be quiet, do distract me and I’ll reward you later” .. but.but... She started as it spoke these words “ Do you want me to leave?. Because I can and I will, your body, my rules, you dig?” she remained silent and just watched. The creature used the phone, rang a number then hung up. Within less than 10 minutes two Hispanic women and a black man entered the room. The two women started to him a song and hold hands, the black man held the animal’s cages, took one chicken out that appeared to be drugged into submission.
“Where did you put the ring?” ohh. Ohh, it's in my “Got it” it spoke placed the ring in its acquired new hand. “ Klatu, barata, nicto!”. The lights in the hospital dimmed as like in a brownout and the chicken disappeared.
Donelle jr was watching T.V. when several masked men force their way into Ms. Harrington’s Apt but how can this be?... it was like watching a movie, The creature could stop, back up and rewind portion of the events. The others ( The faithful ) could interact with the movie, touch things, look, and pick up. But a woman dropped something and it all went away, everyone was back in the hospital room “I have enough to punish those that prey on the weak” “ Pappi, forgive me, I was the one that sinned against you”. The creature was irritated but “ You did you best, faithful one”
The faithful ones escorted by wheelchair Ms. Harrington to the morgue without any incidents along the way. In the morgue and naked body on a cold slab was pulled out of the box. “ Wake up and speak !”
The body of the dead son replied and spoke to an almost crying woman, she could move again, the creature was gone.
Many questions were asked, exchanged and the awkwardness of the dead pulling the sheet to stay modest in front of his mother.
“Its time...” It spoke from the dark corner of the room. “Who is that?” the dead asked “I gave you life...to talk, to speak again, your mother misses you and you were taken before your time”
“ No...I’m dead,” the body asked, “ But why?”
“Boss...time” The older black man attending pointed to his watch.
“Time to go back to sleep” IT spoke.
“ No, I want to be with my baby, please” She pleaded
“ No, mom!’
“ It is done” It spoke
Darkness....envelope them all
Two weeks later on the Costa Rico island, mother and son were reunited and living a healthy life under new assumed names.
Posted on 2020-07-02 at 02:21:44.
Edited on 2020-07-02 at 22:44:19 by Espatier
Preston Smith reached the apex of another prodigious leap, as the voice of his best friend, Delbert ‘Dweeb’ Watkins, crackled in his ear-piece:
“Myriem and Gunny will meet you at the extraction point near the Recording Studio!”
“Getting an increasing surge of electromagnetic disturbance inside my body!”
“How do you know?” asked Dweeb.
“Got that itchy-crawly feeling under my skin!” was the familiar reply.
Dweeb took note and let out a loud whistle that seemed to pierce the inside of the helmet that Preston Smith was wearing.
“Your last jump covered four miles!”
“You still tracking me?”
“What Do You See?”
“Looks like your next leap will take you through a thunderstorm!”
Preston Smith responded rather cheerily:
“Guess I Better Introduce Myself to the Thunderstorm!”
Preston Smith made another prodigious leap towards the dark and gloomy sky, as lightning flashed on the horizon, Preston could see a rainbow off in the distance, as he broke forth into another song to help entertain his friend Dweeb:
All eyes were on the beautiful brunette as she stepped forward towards the audition stage.
“Marigold … Myriem … Marigold.”
“Name of Your Band Please?”
“The Rag Tag Band.”
“Are They All Here?”
“Not Today,” came the confident reply. “One of our Key Players is currently Detained. He is Locked Into a Contract that We are Breaking Him Out From!”
Myriem coolly, but confidently, tossed her head at the speechless interviewer.
“We have many interchangeable parts,” she continued. “We have several singers and musicians that play when they are available. We started out as what you would call a garage band in London years ago and toured around clubs and military bases all over Europe, before we broke up.”
The stage manager looked at Myriem curiously, before drawing a deep breath to keep from staring at her obvious assets.
“Our House Band has tendered their resignation,” he began to explain. “Seems some new recording studio from upstate or out-of-state signed them to a new gig. They must relocate to California by the end of next month for an opportunity of a lifetime!”
Myriem merely smiled.
“This is kind of a rough neighborhood at times,” the stage manager explained. “We need another House Band to keep the Hippie Haven from slowly going out of business!”
“Like I said earlier,” Myriem smiled and tossed her head nonchalantly, “we are the Rag Tag Band and we have many interchangeable parts! We even provide our own security!”
“I Do Not Think We Can Afford Paying Your Security!”
“Actually,” Myriem smiled broadly. “We all have some money tucked away, so we can work out an arrangement to help your establishment get back on its feet and flourish like never before!”
“I Have Not Hired Your Band Yet!”
Myriem smiled and reached for a microphone.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Myriem … but you can just call me … Groupie!”
“Where Is Your Other Band Members?”
“Gunther is the only one who came with me today,” Myriem smiled coyly. “Gunther will play the acoustic guitar for our audition … but you can call him Roadie!
Gunny began to play his acoustic guitar as Myriem took center stage and began to sing an oldie but a goodie that had the small audience spellbound.
Muffled swearing was the clue that Zarenna was home. Usually it was loud kpop blasting through the door or a sharp “Wasabi, no!” when the cat tried his luck with an open window, but not tonight. Even with an ambulance siren breaking through layers of cheap plaster, the kid upstairs trash-talking his way into a grounding from video games, and the pounding behind Evin’s eyes after her 12-hour shift, there was no missing the sharp, pained grunts coming from the neighbouring apartment.
“And just when I think I’m done with overtime,” Evin muttered to herself, “I meet a superhero whose too dumb to call ahead when she knows I’ll be home tonight. I could have gotten more bandages from work.” Balancing the groceries and her work duffle bag with one hand, she made short work of unlocking her apartment door, kicking off her sneakers, and getting ready for the next couple hours.
Emptying the essential groceries - the ice cream and wine, that is - into place was her first stop, then dropping her duffle bag by the laundry hamper for the trip downstairs later; Evin would have changed too, but she figured it was better to have blood on her scrubs than a pair of yoga pants. She stopped to look in the mirror once, tucking stray hair back behind her headband, grumbling at the dark circles under her eyes, then grabbed the first aid kit in the hallway closet, stuffed her sore feet into slippers, and made her way across the hall.
As usual, the spare key was in the crack between the doorframe and wall, so Evin let herself into Zarenna’s apartment, mindful of any flash of calico fur making a break for the door. She swore Zarenna’s cat had superpowers too, for how often he slipped out of the apartment; his record was getting three blocks away, but Evin’s favourite incident was when he snuck into the Abbotts and chased their Yorkie onto the balcony.
Thinking of him must have summoned him, for Wasabi suddenly appeared before Evin’s feet, looking past her at the closed door. The cat blinked up at her once, green eyes like saucers, then turned and walked away.
“Nice seeing you too,” Evin chuckled at the cat’s disappearing tail. She set the medkit on the counter as she headed into Zarenna’s kitchen. The hygiene routine she followed as a nurse was easy enough to repeat in the dingy little apartment; washing her hands in scalding water at the sink, slipping on latex gloves, double-checking her supplies - running low on butterfly bandages, but there was enough gauze for now. Evin was halfway through laying out her most-used instruments on the kitchen counter when Zarenna exited the bathroom.
Clearly fresh from the shower, Zarenna tucked her towel tighter around her chest, and gave Evin a confused look. “I thought you said you were watching Ryan Gosling movies until you were actually dreaming of him tonight?”
“I am,” Evin replied.
“But you’re in scrubs and are holding a scalpel in my kitchen right now,” Zarenna said.
“And I could hear you swearing and groaning louder than Jasmine and Nick from down the hall, so I got ready.” She gestured at the barstool beside her. “Hop up and let’s go this over with. I have wine to drink.”
Zarenna rolled her eyes, but complied and took a seat. “Two bullets hit me between my left shoulder blade and spine, as well as one that grazed my helmet and might’ve hit my ear,” she listed as Evin began checking her over, “I have some pretty bad scrapes on my knees, a huge bruise on my right palm, and of course, blisters on my feet.”
“Was it a Nine Milimeter?” Evin asked, brushing the shower cap away from her friend’s ear to begin her check-up
“Most likely,” Zarenna winced at the poking. “I wasn’t paying attention to more than ‘look, man with gun threatening unarmed teenager.’”
“Here I was thinking you’d have all the time in the world at Mach Two to notice stuff like that,” Evin smirked.
Her teasing earned her a glare from her friend. “I can run at Mach Two but it's not like I’m noticing that much,” Zarenna explained, tilting her head to give the light and Evin better access to her ear. “I control speed and direction, so I can propel myself to high speeds, but it’s like I’m in a tunnel and -”
“And your brain can’t keep up with the speed past a certain threshold because while you are theoretically capable of running at the speed of the light, you lack the physiology and senses of a traditionally-Powered speedster to process sensory information past normal human limits.” At Zarenna’s wide eyes, Evin cocked an eyebrow. “You complain every time the news gets your powers wrong. I’ve heard this explanation at least thirty times. Now, lean forward and tell me about your patrol.”
While she leaned forward, Evin caught the wince on her friend’s face as she braced herself against the counter, then felt herself wince when Zarenna dropped her towel around her waist. Her back was a mess of bruises; blue-black rings around the centre of impact on her left shoulder and lower back, with mottled purple abrasions showing the pathways the kinetic energy of the bullets took after colliding with her Kevlar-padded costume. Given that her entire trapezius muscle was a battered wreck, Evin took extra care with her examination of Zarenna.
“I started at seven PM as usual,” Zarenna recounted, “and it was quiet until eleven. There was a bar fight that spilled into the street in North Point I just had to run by to break up.” Her breath hitched when Evin pressed into her ribs, checking for fractures. “It was when I was passing the nightclubs that I overheard a drug shipment was coming into the docks. I made my way to Bay View and as it turns out, the Disciples were crawling all over the warehouse.”
Evin let loose a curse. “Please tell me the ER isn’t about to be flooded with daydream-abusers again.”
“No,” Zarenna assured, “Only painkiller addicts. I handled the Disciples and the police were there to meet the daydream suppliers on the docks.”
“Did you get shot during the raid? Hands, please.”
Zarenna brought her towel back up to her chest, then laid her hands palm-up in front of her. Evin’s lips formed a thin line at the sight of her friend’s right hand, a battered and bruised mess like her back.
“I caught a bullet,” Zarenna explained when Evin shot her a questioning look. “And no, this wasn’t from fighting with Disciples. It happened after.”
“Right. A teenager was being threatened?”
“I cut through Saint Mary’s Park on my back to the Fens, and then I heard a scream. I checked by the tennis courts and, as usual, there was trouble there. A girl was making a detour to Downtown by the bike pathways when some guys cornered her, forced her into the bushes.”
Evin swallowed past a lump in her throat. “Please tell me you knocked all of their teeth out.”
“Naturally,” Zarenna assured. “One of them had a gun, however, and unloaded a magazine on me. I dodged most of them, got clipped by the ear trying to get close to him, and then caught one when he went to fire. I was busy knocking the shooter unconscious when his friend picked up the handgun and hit me twice in the back.
“After I caught my breath again, I took the girl to the edge of the park, flagged down a cab, and got her a ride to the police station. The guys got away, but with the injuries I gave them, I imagine they’ll be showing up at a hospital in the next few days. There were at least two sets of fingerprints on the handgun too, so I think that case will be a straightforward one.”
Evin loosed a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Even two years on, mentions of women being attacked reminded Evin too much of her sister’s assault. Rotting in a jail cell was still not enough for what the scumbag had done to Sidney.
But her sister was whole and safe and enjoying her honeymoon in Barcelona, so Evin shook off the dark memories and refocused on her present. She finished checking over Zarenna’s arms and dragged the remaining barstool in front of her. “And now for our favourite part,” she joked. “Feet.”
Zarenna swung her legs up onto the seat, hissing when her skinned knee made contact with the countertop. Evin was more than a little grateful she had caught Zarenna after she had showered; a speedster’s feet always reeked after patrol. Fortunately, no smell but coconut wafted into her nose when Evin bent to examine the damage running at superspeed did to Zarenna’s feet this time.
As a former track athlete and now superhero, blisters were the least of the injuries Zarenna had acquired. Plantar fasciitis was a common problem, as was shin splints, sore muscles, hamstring strains. A tear to her ACL had left Scyon City without its signature hero for almost the entire summer two years ago. Evin had not known her back then, but she had been told that Zarenna had walked around on sprained ankles for almost four months after she first got her powers at twenty-four; turning corners at superspeed was a dangerous game, apparently.
Without a doubt, the worst were the burns. Zarenna’s feet were the biggest casualty of her night gig, but all of her body was susceptible to burning at the right speed. Breaking the sound barrier for the first time ended in Zarenna laid up for weeks afterwards, unable to walk from the second-degree burns on her soles. Testing out materials for her suits had ended in friction burns as she neared her top speed, with the fabric itself tearing her skin before the right balance of protection and movement was struck. The insanity of last year had seen Zarenna covered in burns, as she pushed herself harder and harder in pursuing the Boogeyman and his victims across the city. Dealing with the aftermath of her patrols each night last October had been the hardest Evin had worked since she first found out Zarenna was Dragonfly, when she collapsed outside her apartment in full costume, bleeding out with a knife in her stomach.
Tonight, however, it was the usual blisters and nothing more. Her legs needed no more than a quick antibacterial swabbing - for Evin trusted this building’s water system to clean open wounds as much as she believed Mayor Watts’ promise of the hospital getting refurbished by the end of this year. “Doctor says you’re clear,” she smiled as Zarenna stood. “You’re going to ice those bruises, right?”
“Yes,” Zarenna assured as she strode towards her bedroom.
“And take it easy on your palm?”
“As much as I can.”
Evin knew pushing for more than that level of commitment would end up in an argument, so she settled for a reminder to check on Zarenna after her next shift, and to pack away her medical supplies for now. She had the toolbox in hand and was heading for the door when Zarenna called out once more, “You leaving?”
“To watch Ryan Gosling be shirtless,” Evin responded, stopping at the doorway, “of course.”
Zarenna exited her bedroom, now in pajamas, with Wasabi twining about her legs. “You could bring the movie here and we just pass out on the couch after.”
Evin chuckled. “Are we almost thirty or highschoolers?”
She got a roll of the eyes but a smile in return. “I think everyone turns into a schoolgirl for Gosling, but if you want to drink wine alone, feel free to keep walking.”
Evin did keep walking, right back to her apartment. Where she quickly shoved the medkit back in its spot, grabbed the copy of Crazy, Stupid, Love - and the ice cream and wine - before hustling back across the hall. Zarenna was busy working a brush through Wasabi’s coat when Evin settled on the couch beside her, two spoons and glasses in hand, and pressed play on the movie.
“Can I hold the ice cream to ice my hand?”
“Don’t push your luck, Reed.”
Posted on 2020-07-06 at 17:33:54.
Edited on 2020-07-06 at 17:34:17 by CameToPlay
Eol Fefalas Keeper of the Kazari RDI Staff Karma: 465/28 8566 Posts
Night Flight and an Overdue Visit
Night had begun to fall on Scyon City and, as darkness encroached, it brought with it a heavy blanket of clouds to separate the lights of the city below from those of the emerging moon and stars above. As the night deepened, winds blew in from the ocean to the east, gusting along the rivers and channels that wound through the city and, soon enough, drove the rains evoked from the clouds through Scyon City’s streets. The showers pattered against the pavement, hastening the cooling of the city’s surfaces brought on by the overcast night, and conjuring a veil of fog that seeped slowly through broad boulevards and litter-choked alleyways alike. From above, where Samael winged his way over the Scyon River, the rain and mist filtered the city’s lights, lending an ethereal aspect to the place that, somehow, tugged at the frayed thread of a memory which he could no longer call clearly to mind.
“A recollection of Arcadia, perhaps,” he mused, blinking at the otherworldly vista below as he soared over the Opera House and then St Mary’s Park. Samael sighed softly and shook his head, trying to make the memory either coalesce or dissipate entirely. He wasn’t sure that Arcadia was (or had been) a real place or if, instead, it was simply a cruel fiction planted in his mind by Anatashia’s torture. Either way, he had chosen to stop looking for the place, even when fragments of fractured memories taunted him to do so. He lifted his pale eyes from the hazy sprawl of Midtown’s streets and turned them, instead, to the glass and steel monolith that was the headquarters of Syncorp Enterprises. Perhaps Aly would still be in her office, there; the rains having forestalled her motorcycle ride back to the Palisades from the city.
Samael banked westward toward the towering skyscraper and climbed higher into the rain streaked sky, hoping to avoid the gazes of anyone still in the building’s offices. When he was close enough to be able to see in the windows, he glided in a wide spiral around Syncorp’s upper floors until his eyes found the narrow balcony outside of Alyeria Synclar’s suite. The windows beyond were dark, though, so if Aly was still in the building, waiting for the rains to pass, she wasn’t biding her time in the office that bore her name.
“No chance of a visit, here, then,” he decided, spiraling higher toward the building's roof.
He lit on the roof’s edge for a moment, perched between the neon glow of the Syncorp logo and the winking lights of the twin helipads which surmounted the tower. His gaze swept the city, piercing the veil of rain and fog in a conscious effort to not succumb to the disjointed memories of the unplace, Arcadia, stirred by the unearthly filtering of light. His fingers curled tightly around the haft of his spear and his bare toes, too, flexed to grip the rain-slick ledge of Syncorp’s roof. Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing his eyes southward to where several sets of blue and red lights flashed atop the SCPD squad cars racing toward the edge of The Fens. For an instant, Samael considered following those lights in order to see if there might be something he might do to help, but, no sooner had the thought entered his mind than the appearance of a blue-white streak of light surged with impossible quickness through the streets of The Fens…
“The Dragonfly,” Samael murmured, transfixed by the lightning fast trail of energy. He chuckled, then, and shook his head as he pushed a rain-soaked shock of hair from his eyes. “It will be over before I get there,” he told himself, reluctantly letting his gaze slip away from the Fens and turn northwest, instead, toward the Palisades, “and it has been too long since I’ve visited Aly.”
...Samael let himself fall from Syncorp’s roof, then, and, after a few stories, his wings unfurled to catch the air, reeling him around the building once more before he soared toward the wide swath cut by Queens River and, beyond that, the Synclar estate. A short time later, he found himself circling above the expansive grounds of Aly’s family home and, following a wary pass or two to insure he had not been seen by private security patrols, Samael descended toward the sprawling manse and came to rest on the very terrace from which he had left all those months ago.
He stood there for a moment, his wings folded around himself like a cloak against the rain, and marveled at the fact that the noise of the city was completely lost, here. It was quiet, still, peaceful, and Samael almost lamented ever having left it behind. “The peace of it would be lost, though, if he ever found me here,” Samael reminded himself with a sigh, turning his eyes from the bucolic spread of the grounds and toward the mansion, itself.
He padded across the terrace toward the board set of French Doors set in the stone walls of the manor and, pausing just outside, reached out a hand to rap lightly on a leaded glass pane as he peered through another.
On the other side of the door, the soft tapping sound stirred Alyeria from the impromptu slumber into which she had slipped and, lifting her head from where it rested on the desk, she blinked in mild confusion, rubbing at her eyes as consciousness came creeping back. When her gaze fell upon the terrace doors and the dark shape that stood just beyond them, though, the confusion vanished and a smile found her lips. “Sam?” She made her way from behind the desk and across the floor, her smile blossoming fuller as she pulled the door open.
“Hello, Aly,” Samael smiled as he set his spear aside.
She looked at Sam, confusion in her eyes for a moment before she felt her feet carry her towards the winged man. Wrapping her arms around him in a hug she couldn’t hide the tremors racking through her body.
“I thought you were too busy to come to see the likes of me..”
“I could never be too busy for you, little sister,” he said softly. His arms and wings folded around her, holding her close against her own trembling. “What’s wrong?”
Aly shook her head relishing in the warmth Sam’s wings gave her as her shaking subsided,
“Exhausted, dealing with a company by father left to me… that’s being employed by morons who can’t tell what shipping container goes to which bay..” She trailed off, she had often spoken ill of her workers to the winged man.
Samael nodded faintly, not that he had any idea about the strain running a company might put on a person but he had heard her complain about this before and knew, also, that it often burdened his friend with a good deal of stress. “I wish I could offer some sort of advice where that’s concerned, little sister,” he said, “but I know nothing of such things.”
After lingering in his embrace for a moment longer, Aly asked; “What brings you here though?”
“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you,” he offered a smile and a faint shrug as he let her go, “or even heard from you for that matter. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Aly returned, waving a hand almost dismissively against his concern, “just tired and overworked.”
Sam nodded, again; feathers rustling as his wings folded against his back and Aly stepped back toward her desk. “I’m happy you’re well,” he said, turning his eyes toward the doors and watching the rain fall on the grounds beyond, “My visit might have been poorly timed, though. Perhaps I should go and let you get some rest?”
Aly shakes her head and smiles kicking her feet up on the corner of her desk and leans back, “No, no I have a bit of work to do. Orders to approve and what not. I’m glad you came. I drove past the cathedral earlier but decided against it wasn’t sure if you were in or not.” She pauses then and looks at her window smiling at the rain dotting the glass, “How’s the crime fighting going? Anything of import come up?”
Sam blinked at the question, his eyes going a bit wider as they turned from the rain-spattered glass and fell on Aly where she sat behind her desk, then that faint glimmer of astonishment melted into something of a sheepish smile. “You know about that?” he asked, the surprise not gone from his voice as entirely as it was from his face.
“Of course,” Aly giggled, gesturing vaguely at the distant lights of Scyon City, “with all the stories in the news about a birdman or an angel coming to the rescue of some random citizen, how could I not? It’s not as if I know of any other winged man that would fit the bill, is it?”
“I guess not,” Samael admitted with a chuckle of his own.
“Anything of import,” he repeated, casting a glance over his shoulder at Scyon City’s skyline and, then, shrugged faintly as his gaze returned to Aly, “I suppose not. I mean, compared to what Dragonfly does, my contributions are... minimal… but I can’t help but try.”
Aly’s grin had begun to fade. “Are you sure that what you’re doing is safe, Sam,” she asked, “I mean, aren’t you afraid of drawing his attention?”
“I can’t let myself see it that way,” the winged man sighed softly, “He’ll find me eventually. He always does. Until then, though, simply hiding away doesn’t seem the right thing to do…”
As The Rag Tag Band finished their Second Set of the Night … Myriem noticed a commotion near the office where the night’s receipts were taken to be counted and put in a wall safe … before being taken to the depository at a nearby bank.