Authors: Nick Kelly
Bottles of cheap booze shattered and colored the walls and floor. Steel racks bent beyond repair or toppled over as the two enemies battled. The duo exchanged blows of metal on metal. They concentrated on one another with the heat of lovers. Cat’s yellow eyes reflected a thousand times in the insectoid’s face. He growled. The low vibration filled his body, unnatural, mechanical.
Before either could react, the back wall of the shop exploded, showering them with debris. Cat slammed against a broken shelf of liquors. The insectoid was tossed across the shop, out of view. The Corps had fired in explosives. The building erupted in flame, and depending on the alcohol, which was spilled, it might just burn forever.
Disoriented, Cat managed to get to one knee. He concentrated on his breathing until he could think clearly. The battle had reached the point that the Corps didn’t care about his life and were willing to detonate entire buildings to rid themselves of the troublesome MH. The next level of escalation involved leveling the entire block. Things were getting complicated fast. He needed to finish this thing before Corporate Security or the NCPD wrote off the buildings, and those inside, as collateral damage.
As his thoughts focused on his primary target, he felt it. The inhuman creature had finally managed to latch its claws into his left leg. The pain was intense and immediate. Cat gasped. His chest burned. He was drowning in fire. Liquid heat surged through his bloodstream, setting his body aflame, and beginning its journey to overtake his entire system.
He looked down, still trying to breathe. One broken insectoid eye stared up at him from beneath a few hundred kilograms of debris. Maybe it was going to die, but it was intent on taking him with it.
Cat concentrated. His solitary goal to keep his eyes from rolling into his skull. Its grip had his left foot planted in place. Perfect. Catwalk fired his right foot forward, then swung it backwards with every ounce of power he could muster, catching the Meta just below its jaw line. Even through the din of burning flame and distant screaming, he heard the snap of its neck.
He dropped to the floor, lying in the sewage of broken liquor bottles and slowly trickling booze as the MH released its grip slightly. The being’s single working eye seemed to stare at him. Apparently, the severed vertebrae hadn’t killed it after all. Suffocation would have to do the rest. Even with its lightened grip, Cat struggled to fight off the spread of heat within him. He wanted to think of the breath, to center, but something in the dying MH refused to allow him.
He had no choice but to outlast the inhuman. One of them was going to die from lack of oxygen. Bile filled his throat, and his eyelids felt like sandbags as he struggled to stay conscious. The smell of mingling alcohol was bitter, and it dried in his nose and mouth.
Cat rose to one knee again, reaching into his belt with agonizing effort. He drew forth a laser scalpel stolen from one of Will’s tests so many months ago. Nearly falling forward, he reached down, concentrating on the exposed wrist joint of the MH. He blinked away stars and sweat from his vision. Unsteady and shaking, he severed the right hand of the MetaHuman at the wrist. Blood pushed outward from the artery of the dying form and mingled with the alcohol soaking the floor tiles.
The pain began to subside. The liquid heat running through his body began to cool, but lava coursed through his veins. He coughed and choked out the burning in his lungs. He tore the insectoid being’s hand from around his leg, staring at it for just over a second before stuffing it into a pouch on his bandolier. If his theory was correct, the additional few seconds would be worth the effort. The Corps was closing in. He choked at the rush of oxygen in his lungs. Swatting at demons and smoke nightmares, Cat rushed to the back of the store.
30 seconds.
He couldn’t even steal a glance to determine if his hunch was a pay off. He needed an escape. He struck the emergency exit with the efficiency of a drunken sailor, collapsing through the doorway. His helmet bounced off the pavement. He felt the impact of the alleyway, the splash of the puddle on his exposed skin.
20 seconds.
Cat struggled to his feet. Fire burned in his lungs. It spread across his back, claws of a phoenix. He wanted to drop to the cool moisture of the street. He wanted the sanctuary of death.
10 seconds.
A light struck him, something from a humanoid form, its lights burning into his skull.
5 seconds.
It was humanoid after all. It was a face he’d seen before but couldn’t quite place.
4…
3…
2…
Was that a wink?
1…
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
13 July 2022
The taste doesn’t strike him as much as the impact. Dirt collides with Leon’s face with the force of a brick wall. He shakes his head to clear his airway as it strikes again. His eyes open wide in dismay at the force. He’s being buried alive. He screams, inviting dirt, mud, and water into his mouth and throat. He coughs, praying anyone can hear him before they shovel him under. Oblivion awaits, and his screams of protest go unheard.
“Oh calm down, Leon, you’re not dying.”
Bobby’s voice bares its eternal self-importance. The strongest and most charismatic of the orphans has always been accepted as superior, so why would he hide that in his tone? His grip is firm on Leon’s shoulder as he lifts the paraplegic upward.
Dirt and muck escape Leon’s throat as he coughs at the rush of fresh air. He realizes the dirt wasn’t being thrown on him from above. Instead, he rushed into it face-first, another drop of the rusty Kawasaki motorcycle. He shakes off Bobby’s grip, leaning on a shelled-out microwave in the midst of the junkyard.
“C’mon, kiddo, care to try it again?”
Another attempt is all Leon wants. He’s been dreaming of riding a motorcycle every day of his stay in St. Patrick’s. He knows the in’s and out’s of every simulator program the aged computers can support. The Kawasaki isn’t a program, though. It’s mechanical, responding with a sensitivity the programs can’t replicate. The potholes and mud puddles of the junkyard are unlike the smooth curves of the simulators.
Leon isn’t willing to give up any time soon. He spits out more of the mud, though plenty still sticks to his taste buds, caked in his gums. “I can do this.”
Bobby nods, “I know, Leon. That’s why I worked on this thing so long. Heck, I even modified the shifter for your left thumb instead of your foot. That way you get to love this thing beyond the foreplay of one gear. C’mon, you can make this happen.”
Disgruntled, Leon looks past Bobby to the pair of girls whispering to one another atop the wreckage of an old Freightliner rig. “Then shut her up.” The blonde hasn’t stopped poking fun at his misfortune, despite the lack of reaction from the Asian girl next to her.
“Angie’s gonna have her fun any chance she gets, Leon. If you want to shut her up, ride rings around her.”
Bobby’s confidence is infectious. Leon manages a muddy grin, presses the starter with his thumb and twists his right wrist. This time, he’s going to keep the Kawasaki upright until none of them can laugh at him anymore. He’s meant to move again, and fast. He’s not an invalid. He still has a chance to leave the wheelchair behind.
The undersized orphan breaks his own record, keeping the bike up nearly six minutes and through four gears before the rain makes Bobby call him back in. If the orphans don’t get back, there will be hell to pay. The burly blonde jock gives Leon a rough pat on the shoulder as he sits him back in the wheelchair. For a while, the love of speed and adrenaline is enough to keep the paraplegic content and hopeful.
Leon smiles at his accomplishment. He’s not meant to remain in one position his whole life. He’s meant to move.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Light.
Sound.
Forms are moving around him. He is aware.
As he pierces the first layers of consciousness, Leon Caliber, Catwalk, the orphan, the hitman, recognizes that there is a world around him. He simply isn’t a part of it. He is what he once was.
Imprisoned.
Alone.
He tries to raise a hand in protest of his sore muscles and dry throat. His body offers no response. He was paralyzed. He is paralyzed. The child and the man blur together. His muscles won’t respond. He is a soul trapped in a corpse. The ending he has always expected has arrived. He is left as a witness, not a participant.
He should panic. He should care. He should be concerned, desperate. He isn’t. He closes his eyes, shutting off the outside world. Numb to his own end, he returns to the dream.
Auburn hair traces the outline of his face as he pulls her closer. Her soft skin engulfs him once again, the full lips of his lover meet his own. He is content in his own sacrifice.
For once, the darkness isn’t cold…it is comfort.
He is Home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Any time you’d like to join us, cleaner, you are welcome to.”
Delambre’s tone was the sterile and sharp intrusion of rubbing alcohol in a fresh wound. It was the piercing reality that instantly dissolved atrophied thought processes and muscle movements. It was as unwelcome as it was necessary.
Cat pried one eye open, his optics instantly adjusting to the familiar lights of the lab. A silhouette perched above him. When he gained clarity, he was surprised to recognize the face of not Delambre, but rather, his daughter. “Well, hello Nurse.”
Delambre’s voice slapped him from just out of his visual range. “Quite the tango you decided to engage in, cleaner. I’d ask what on Earth made you decide on a frontal attack, but you’ve always had a preference for full frontal, haven’t you?”
Cat tried to laugh. He coughed instead. His body violently aching from every pore as a result. The muscles of his back constricted and breathing became a concentrated labor. When he regained his breath and realized how dry his throat was, he barely voiced his reply.
“Shock, that was funny…” There was probably more moisture in his eyes than in his throat as a response to the joke. “I guess I ain’t dead after all, huh?”
Angela made a derisive sound and walked away as Delambre stood and entered Cat’s field of vision. “No, you’re quite alive, thanks to a marathon of attention and deep well of knowledge from your MetaHuman biological experts.”
“An expensive marathon?”
“Quite.”
Cat could still make out Angela’s silhouette in the distance. He took another risk without calculating the responses first. “So, I guess I make the check out to Dr. and Evil Angel?”
Angela stopped in her footsteps. Delambre shook his head, brushing off the hitman’s comment. “You’re in no position to slap labels on anyone, Catwalk.”
“No chit, Doc, but as long as we’re chattin’, I’m havin’ a real hard time believin’ you ain’t tied to whoever’s behind all a’ this. I seen way too many coincidences, unless you wanna start a three-way conversation with you, me, and little Evil over there.”
A glance was exchanged between father and daughter before Delambre broke the silence. “I’ll handle our mutual partner, Angela. Go get cleaned up. It was a lengthy procedure. You did very well.”
Angela’s brown eyes moved from her father to the man on the table. She studied them both, not speaking a word. Cat felt the gravity behind her stare. She was more than he had bargained for. He hired her father, yet there was so much they provided together. He couldn’t belittle her value, or the danger her presence brought to his partner, and his business.
“Angela, please,” Delambre repeated. His daughter turned on a heel, leaving them to their discussion. Her father’s gaze lingered on the closed door long after she was gone. “That was a brash and dangerous move, cleaner.”
“She needs ta know, an’ she needs a new handle. I was tyin’ ta take care a’ both.”
Delambre lost his cool for the first time Cat could recall. The geneticist grabbed his neck and leaned forward. “If anything happens to her, so help you, Leon Caliber, I’ll hunt you until the stars burn out.”
Cat nodded with a smirk. “Good. Let go, Doc. I’m not tryin’ ta hurt yer kid, an’ I ain’t tryin’ ta have my way with her. She’s bright, probably brighter than either of us. I’m tryin’ ta teach her what else is out there. If she’s here in my world, she needs ta learn exactly comes with the job.” He tiled his head slightly. “Book smart may get you a scholarship, but Downtown, it’ll just get you killed.”
Several moments passed before the geneticist released his client. With an admonished look, he softly said, “Thank you.”
“Yer welcome. Now, get me upright an’ tell me what we learned from that thing that almost fried me. We got plenty of work ta do before the next one comes our way.”
“Next one?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna guess the big boy I saw at Will’s was strike one, the winged Angel was the second, and this thing, well, this has gotta be the hat trick. You, me and Eva got a lotta work to do.”
“Eva?”
“Yer kid, Doc. Till I know otherwise, I’m guessin’ you two are in as deep as whoever’s behind this chit. I’m also gonna take a stab that she’s done more a’ the armor an’ equipment work while you’ve handled the surgical stuff. So I got the Doc who keeps my universe in line, and his Evil Angel. If you ain’t gonna give her a name ta protect her, I am. Eva…Eva Angel. Get used to it.”
Delambre remained silent for almost a full minute. When he spoke, he muttered only a word.
“Pestilence.”
Cat looked at him, too tired to be patient. The fanatic was up to his old tricks, and he’d just sent a horseman to do away with his greatest competition. Cat turned his gaze toward the geneticist with a sudden renewed interest in scripture. Gritting through the pain of his muscles and the tension of the IV’s, he sat upright.
“Pestilence, huh? Let’s have a little bible study, Doc.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cat was no scholar in religion. He’d gone through his share of classes in the orphanage but asking him to recite scripture was like asking a cadaver to do the Charleston. He had as strong a chance of reciting a monologue from one of the mandatory literature classes or the so-called Bill of Rights.