Rache - Part 1

You've had that dream right? You’re running from something. You can’t see it. You can’t hear it. Hell, you can’t even smell it. But you can feel it somehow. You know it’s there, and you know it's getting closer. And that feeling, that certainty that it’s right behind you, hounding your every step, it’s breath shocking the hairs on the back of your neck to attention, is a feeling of dread. That’s where I am.

I’ve been running for so long that my muscles have gone warm, burning, screaming, aching, numb. And still it comes. My mind is drawn thin from fear and panic, my eyes blind to anything but forward. And still it comes. And now I can hear it, the staccato of that screech. soft at first, but slowly gaining power, with each repetition piercing further into my weary thoughts, telling me something important, reminding me like the scent of pears recalls the tree in my mother's garden, and the stench of decay conjures my father’s workroom. What does it want?

Right.

Wake up.

5:00 am. The crimson light from the LED bleeds into my tearing eyes the second before I backhand the clock from the night table. I hate getting up early. It doesn’t help that I just crashed a little under two hours ago. Hell, I’d probably still be awake if not for the gig. Glancing across the room I see my suit hanging on the back of the bathroom door. At least I remembered to get it dry cleaned. As I stumble to the bathroom, almost falling over the coffee table along the way, I kit bash a quick charm, wringing out some more mental and physical vitality for the day to come, adding to it a cold shower and the rest of a yesterday’s coffee from the mug on the vanity for good measure. No time for morning rituals, I’ll probably be late as it is, so I throw on the suit, black of course, over a cream shirt and contrasting tie, single Windsor for speed, and make for the door. And as luck, for fate, would have it, just as my hand reaches the knob after unlocking my prodigious safety precautions, the phone rings. The coffee table again gives me trouble as I dash for the Batphone. No really, I have a Batarang shaped phone. I’m a dork, sue me.

“What,” I mumble my common greeting.

Silence.

“Okay, hello,” I try again.

And again, silence.

No one knows this number. I don’t get crank calls.

I mentally pull the strings of energy dancing in the wires, restructuring my thoughts so that I can interpret them, and even with those alterations, I only barely make out a weak voice. A child’s voice. A dead voice.

“Help me”

~ * ~

I hate Mondays. Then I remember it isn’t Monday. It’s Sunday, but then, with all the crap that is happening today, I almost have something to look forward to.

Early morning appointment with no sleep. Check.

Creepy dead girl voice on the phone asking for help. Check.

Car won’t start. What do you think. Got it in one. Did I mention that I hate public transit? Even if I am tweaking the strings to make sure it arrives on time, and that no one even thinks of sitting next to me.

5:30 am and I don’t think I’m going to make it. Someone on the bus has smoked hash in the last half hour, and it reeks. If I cared I could figure out who it was and persuade them to give it up for their health. I could tell them they won’t find enlightenment at the end of a lit brand. But then, who am I to say? Maybe they will. I twist a charm to block the stench from my senses, and look out the window.

The city, rolling by me at a maddeningly slow pace, doesn’t look good. She’s been dying slowly for some years, but it's tough to see if you can’t open your eyes to look. The sun is burning just on the edge of the horizon, and even it’s impending rise hasn’t sent the street tricks to their owners’ beds, nor their marks to their wives’. The homeless, hiding in plain sight, wake early to make sure that underpaid cops and other bums don’t take the treasures they’ve hidden in shopping carts and forts of corrugated boxes. They mill around dying campfires burning low in well used and rusted drums.

My fingers go numb, and on instinct I refocus my eyes so I can see, just in time to notice the taint of spirit influence and apathy washing over the whores and the wastrels. Not my job to worry about, and not my right. All the same, I thumb open my cell and text the dog soldiers with the intersection and the proper code. Least I can do for them, what with them letting me squat in their territory. I get the standard “FQ-U” which lets me know they’ll check it out.

5:37 am and ten blocks from the meet. I know I’m going to be late.

I might as well enjoy the ride. A girl’s bobbing head two rows up tells me she’s rocking out some tunes over her wireless earbuds. I tap the signal, twist it into auditory input, and listen in. Some kind of autotuned trip hop. I drop the line. Kids these days. No taste. At least she isn’t singing out loud.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. Maybe a quick nap will do me good.

I barely hear the driver call the stop, and nearly have to claw my way to consciousness. I dash for the front of the bus, hopping or sidestepping a few legs, and stumble out into the growing morning light.

5:59 am. Just in time.

“Johnny boy,” I call to the little emo looking puke across the street as he was unlocking the grate to a bodega, “we need to talk.”

He looks, then according to my tingling fingers, he looks. And then, of course, he runs.

They always run.

Good thing I hexed him before I left the pad. Oh, forgot to mention that didn’t I? Yeah I know, taints the soul and all that. Who cares, I’m getting paid. Helped that they clued me on what momma named him, so did the vial of blood. I’ll have to thank them when I come to collect, and I promise I won’t up the price. Maybe.

I stroll after him.

The first fall isn’t even my fault; he’s looking back at me as he runs into a morning jogger. I couldn’t have asked for that one. He pulls himself back up, a bit slower than the health nut, who promptly pushes him back down. That was probably mine. I chuckle, and continue to follow, pulling out my shades and sliding them on to complete the company man look, dramatics and all.

He climbs up again, the jogger gone on his merry, and continues to run, nearly barreling into a bum steered shopping cart, only to twist his ankle on the uneven sidewalk as he tries to dodge to the side. He curses, and looks my way. I wave, yeah, I’m still here, closer now. I’m thinking he’s got to know, got to try and unravel what I’ve done, but nope, no Art, just running. I shake my head, and reach out to a barrel fire he’s nearing, nudging it over. This is pushing the limits, but I can take it. The flaming debris covers the walk in front of him, and with traffic on his left, he ducks into the nearest building. Predictable, and right where I want him.

When I make it to the building, he is still trying the doors on the first floor, all of which I have already made sure are stuck or locked. Save for the last on the right, with the stairs heading up. He takes it, and as it closes the door swells stuck, another charm dropped from my roster. I release the illusory wall over the elevator he should have seen, but didn’t, and I ride up to the fifth.

I’m already in place on the roof as he slams open the door, heaving from his run up the stairs. He’s got a gun out, and I shake the numbness out of my hand as I sense the sound bending charm around it. At least he’s smart enough not to want to draw attention. He tracks around the rooftop, and makes for the edge near the closest neighboring building, then falls back a bit. Nice of them to tell me about his fear of heights as well. I step out of the shadow of a ruined air conditioning unit.

“John, let’s talk,” I open casually.

He turns the gun on me, and pulls the trigger, which does nothing. He still hasn’t dispelled that hex.

“Oh, such violence I sense in you young one,” I deadpan. Jedi-like? Yes, Corny? Sure, but who’s watching.

“You can’t touch me,” he whines, “the Conclave won’t have it.”

“But John-boy, you ran like you knew me,” I counter, prepping a counter if he tries everything, “so you should know I don’t play by their rules.”

“Besides,” I sneer, “I know who you’ve been playing with, and I don’t think your bosses would be too happy about that, now would they?”

He rushes me. I can feel him twisting something as he comes, but I unwind it as he throws his first punch. That costs me a shot to the stomach, but the suit absorbs most of it. He throws another, a right hook coming in high. Sidestepping, I pull him off balance with his wrist and slam his arm behind his back, hook my foot around his, and drop him to the loose asphalt of the roof. His black-dyed emo doo makes a nice handle as I slam his face into the shale repeatedly. Finally, a bit too quickly for my own tastes, he goes limp. I give him one more face plant, just to make sure he’s out, and then stand.

I let the hex drop as I zip tie his hands behind his back and dig through his pockets. Keys, don’t need them. Twenty bucks, mine. A club matchbook with a number for Amiee in red ink on the inside, interesting, and taken.

Pulling out my phone, and noting the time, 6:23 am, I punch the number for my contact, texting a simple, obvious message.

“PICKUP”