He came to a full stop when he reached his ideal option. The ever-popular, but ever so under-utilised pitch-black full-body morph suit. A cheap, thin black polyester costume that covered a person in a single colour from head to toe, zipped up from the back. The rather curvaceous man on the packaging didn’t do it justice.
‘The veneer’ Indy noted to himself. Reaching for one.
Hearing a light tumble. He took a step back as his leading foot knocked over a small tray of plastic toys that had fallen off a shelf. Amongst the pile, a small plastic echo-microphone toy, coated in pink-princess branding. Indy reviewed it, realising a peculiar purpose for the instrument.
All shopped out, tired from the grand spree. Indy headed home with one last quick stop off in mind. An old friend’s security store.
Owned by none other than Big Red’s father, Felix Remus. Indy left the best till last, knowing he could grab a cuppa with the old man, someone he adored. Felix like so many old timers with a story to tell was a retired gangster. He represented the gentler, almost kinder side of the criminal endeavour. Much like his impressionable son.
As Indy stepped in, the bell hanging from the top of door-frame rang, causing Felix’s old voice to announce his impending arrival from the back room. The old gent stumbled through to the main till. His beard now grey, contrasting with his dark brown skin. Indy could count every new wrinkle that had developed in the few years since he had last seen the old timer.
‘I don’t believe it. Indy.’ Felix announced with an accent similar, though rustier, to Reds.
‘Hey, Felix.’ Indy said with a smile, making his way towards the till. He could see the excitement on Felix’s face. Feeling the warmth of the man’s welcoming. There were not enough Felixes in this city.
‘How are you, my son? It’s been too long.’ Felix asked, his hands up and out for an overdue hug.
‘It has, I’m good. How are you? How’s business?’ Indy replied, embracing him.
‘Ah, business continues, somehow. You’d think being a specialist in security in this city, I would be a millionaire, sadly no.’ He muttered, making his way around to the consulting table where they could both sit. ‘I used to think people would appreciate the idea of having their security thought out by a man who used to break it.’ He continued.
Indy felt sorry for him but not to the grandest extent. Knowing full well that Felix now owned both the shop and his home out-right. Both financed through his more mischievous days.
‘Are you still building things?’ Indy asked causing Felix to rupture a smile.
‘Why?’ Felix said with a nigh-on evil grin. ‘What’s Red been saying?’ he asked. Indy squinted confused before replying.
‘Hasn’t told me anything, I just know you can’t help yourself. Inventor first, shop-keeper second.’ Indy explained.
He was right in his assessment. Felix was an incredibly gifted engineer. Whose skill-set allowed him to rob a hundred dangerous characters without ever having to point a gun.
‘Ah well, with the amount of information he leaks, I assumed he would have mentioned something.’
‘Red leaks information?’ Indy worried.
‘Well, to his dad, sure. I know John’s back, and I also know you shouldn’t get involved in your brother’s affairs.’
‘Believe me. I don’t want to get stuck in John’s troubles.’
‘I wasn’t talking about that one.’ Felix rumbled back, looking for his keys. ‘Your dad never wanted that life for you. After your dear mother left us all, you were his shining star.’ Felix informed. Believing himself to be paying Indy a compliment rather than stir feelings of guilt.
‘Well, I was thinking of starting a business actually. Almost the polar opposite of being a master criminal like you old farts.’
‘I like it already, is that why you’re here?’ He said excitable. Indy side-stepped.
‘No, I came to see you and to get a gift for my girlfriend.’ Indy replied.
‘You’re buying a gift for your missus here?’ Red pondered, looking around his silent, unflavoured shop. ‘Lucky girl.’
‘She commutes near the Imperial Quarter.’
‘Say no more. You’re looking for a discreet, fending-off device right?’
Indy nodded, taking Felix’s lead. The old man hobbled to his back room, complaining about the city’s new hive of crime. ‘That imperial quarter, it’s breeding a new crop of degenerates. The suits know what’s happening there, and they don’t care. Drug dealers from the north, sex traffickers from the east. I hope your girl drives to work.’
‘She does, I just want to be extra careful. Car parks.’ Indy insisted, feeling guilty that while the dangers were very real. His reasoning for the device was nothing of the kind.
‘Here you go.’ Felix said as he placed two small, thin, mobile-shaped devices on the table.
‘What’s this?’ Indy puzzled, observing what looked like an chunky metal credit-card. ‘It looks like a Zippo shagged a Motorola.’ Indy described, picking one of the small cuboids up.
‘It does, which is why it’s so beautiful. If you press here...’ Felix instructed, pointing to a small button on the widest surface. Indy immediately pushed down with his forefinger, all the while smothering the top of the device with the remainder of his hand. He felt his whole right side violently spasm, causing the rest of his shocked body to rocket a few inches in the air. The jolt sent him crashing back into several shelves of neatly stacked padlocks. Felix could only watch on with a wincing face. ‘... if you press there when your hand is not covering the taser’s barrel, you won’t get shunted into the decor.’ He explained, finishing his sentence. Indy panted heavily, delicately placing the taser back onto the desk in front of him.
‘I was thinking of something a little less volatile?’
‘Listen, this is a taser without the taser gun. It could be my pension-plan.’
‘Is it even legal?’
‘The legality of self-defence. It’s a conundrum Indy. It’s a conundrum for sure.’ Felix countered, dismissive of such things.
‘Right.’
‘Listen, take these two for free.’
‘Free? You’re most definitely an inventor first, shopkeeper second. You’re supposed to sell your goods, not give them away.’ Indy insisted causing Felix to frown like his younger self had been caught by the coppers.
‘Yeah, well it’s not technically a legal, licensed product, it’s a prototype I’ve been working on. Could do with some user testing. It’s an excuse for you to pop in and see me again.’
‘Well it’s unreal, so small and yet... that...’ he looked back at the shelves, ‘you’re a genius.’ Indy acclaimed.
‘God no. I’m not a genius, but give me ten minutes and a soldering iron, and I’ll give you Disneyland.’
Finally back home, Indy thanked his foresight for leaving the heating on. Unzipping his winter coat as he dumped the shopping bags across the sofa. He flicked the kettle on and contemplated his grand design. Double-locking the front door and turning on some B.B. King on the sound system. The blues of Lucille flooded the apartment as Indy emptied out each bag. Laying the contents out on the coffee table in a neat, tidy order.
Picking up the aluminium sheet and the metal cutters. He began to cut out strips, each five inches long and just over an inch wide. Eight in total, he laid them in two columns of four rows atop the abdomen of the spread-out thermals. He then crafted two larger square pieces, each with rounded corners. Placing them next to each other on the thermal’s chest.
He picked up the first pair of child’s shin pads. Positioning them in their pre-purposed locale on the lower-half of the thermal. He took the adult pair, stretching and straightening their designed curvature slightly. Placing them on the thigh area of each leg. With the final, remaining child’s pair, he placed them on each of the under-layer’s forearms.
Reviewing the hack-job padding. He picked up the super-glue and stuck each component to its companion segment of the thermal. Acutely
aware that the glue would need a few minutes to set, he continued with his blueprint.
The first task done. He grabbed the pink, princess echo-microphone, tightening his grip upon it more and more until the cheap plastic chassis of the handle collapsed. Spitting out of the cheap plastic toy, a small reverberating diaphragm. The mechanism that served to produce the echo. He placed it against his lips and murmured a sound. A demonic resonation echoed forth, leaving him astounded by its pending suitability.
He picked up the goaltenders mask and rested it on his lap, cradling it between his thighs. Grabbing the glue once more, he with some precision, lined the edge of the mouth-hole with the adhesive. Gently placing the echo diaphragm against the interior-side of it.
As B.B. King continued to discuss his love affair with his electric guitar Lucille. Indy looked at the still packaged black morph suit. Removing the mask which came detached from the rest of the outfit, he turned the fabric inside out. Lining the forehead and cheekbones of the goaltender mask with glue, he carefully pressed it against the morph suit mask. Before the glue could set, he reversed it once more and slowly slid it on. Nudging the plastic mask under the cloth until both the constructed facade and his own face rested perfectly aligned. He then pressed the cloth against and into the crevasses of the mask, contouring a facial expression that paid tribute to the grim reaper.
The second task done. He removed the mask, his hair fluffing upwards from the vacuum. The aluminium plating previously glued had almost fixed finite to the body of the thermals. In a tricky operation, Indy stripped down out of his clothes and slid the plated under-layer on. He jumped up and down gently, resetting any plates that shifted. Each abdominal plate was shorter than the height of his abdominal muscle, maintaining his flexibility when wearing it. He then applied more glue on both the top of the plating and between each one, onto the thermal directly.
Now covered in figure-hugging thermals, thin-sheeted metal, shin pads and glue. Indy reached for the morph suit and dressed it atop his armoured physique.
Zipped up, his entire body stood encased in a thin veneer of the matt-black fabric. He massaged the outer cloth into the glue underneath, against both the padding and spaces between. Embossing the armour as the adhesive diffused into the outer textile.
Testing the suits rigidness and pliability, he squatted down and then jumped up. Thanking the gods that the front door was double-locked the entire time.
He picked up the gloves and slid the left one on, resting the bare fingers of his right hand on the back of his left. Making a fist with the left, he felt the muscles just shy of his knuckles contract and swell by a millimetre or so. Confirming a hypothesis he had conceived for a trigger.
Now experienced in the volatility of the taser device. He, very carefully, picked up one of the gifted tasers with his right hand and placed it cautiously onto the back of his left. Leaving the metal electrode of the weapon to stick out a half-centimetre further than his knuckles.
Opening and un-flexing his left hand. He taped the taser down, with the trigger button resting against the back of his hand. Fastened into place, he clenched his fist. The contracting muscles applied just enough pressure to push the trigger inward. Turning his gloved mitt into a cattle-prod.
For the finishing touches. He grabbed the black spray paint and coated over the gloves and stun-gun attachments. Repeating the process for his second fist.
He then sprayed the suit itself. Catching the protruding under-armour padding which in turn accented through the fabric. The process produced an unexpected pearlescent effect which amplified his masculine physique.
He tested his movement, moving his limbs in weird directions before beating his chest, feeling like a 23rd-century ninja. He strutted to the bedroom mirror, astonished by the finished product.
It had worked.
In his reflection, stood the dark figure that had haunted him for so many years. A man crafted by shadow.
The mask was a triumph. A Skeletor-like face, vacuum-packed in a matt-black material. The cloth had fixed taut to the hockey mask causing the eyes, mouth, and cheekbones to sink slightly compared to the forehead and chin. It looked nothing short of hellish. The body of the suit made him look like the Silver Surfer composed of tar or volcanic rock. It’s multi-layered charcoal-black veneer fixed tight to his muscular limbs. Like a wrestler ready to headline the big event.
‘Fuck...’ he said with reverence. His speech now altered, reverberating via the voice diaphragm.
B.B. King had concluded his love letter, and the apartment laid silent as Indy stared at his creation. Focused on its purpose. This was either the physical embodiment of real, hard-hitting aspiration. Or pure and definitive psychosis. Either way, his mind began to travel to the faces who would fear such a sight. The coffee shop youths, the drug-dealers that plagued the Imperial Quarter. Indy felt invincible in the suit, anonymous behind the mask. Today was either the beginning of his life or another lapse into mania.
✽
As the evening darkened and the night set in, John rested on Grace’s lounge sofa in a light slumber. Awakening briefly and sporadically by the throttling pain. He clamoured for painkillers, swallowing them with some water. Hydrated, he laid back, attempting to fall asleep. On enough medication to tranquilise a small rhino, all provided by the pharmacy of Big Red. John was too out of it to appreciate his location or the host responsible. He gazed at blurred faces in frames on the wall. Hoping Indy was close by.
In the dark, soothing silence. A tiny human hovered passed him, catching John’s eye for a split second. Still lost in a blur, he opened his eyes to see nothing. Shrugging it off as the drowsy tablets took hold. Closing his eyes, he could hear the tipper, tapper of small footsteps increasing in volume. He quickly lifted himself up and opened his eyes to see and focus on a young boy around the age of five staring back. Brown hair with a delicate complexion, the kid looked at him with a quizzical, un-deterred gaze. Unsure of the rules of engagement, John laid silent.
Either satisfied or bored with their wordless introduction, the boy hovered away and up the stairs. John remained still as he watched the kid’s exit. Alone once more, he sat upright and gathered himself. Contemplating the brief exchange.
✽
The Imperial Quarter in the North East of the city was always meant to of been a Utopia. A middle-eastern style rejuvenation project that would announce Kingsland’s rebirth to the rest of the nation. With mid-market skyscrapers and a small charter airport. The Imperial Quarter would serve as a beacon for the city’s citizens and its cash-rich tourists. This was the plan.
Over time, dreams faded, ambitions eroded, and corruption dug its claws. The money invested by the council and its key individuals were eventually laundered and shifted into others ventures. Even Isaac Kane who saw the quarter as a legacy fitting project had lost interest and moved his money elsewhere. What was left was a massive industrial estate, with half-built factories, scrap yards, and tech incubators.
Only one building of a substantial height had reached full structural build. And even that had garnered a depressive nickname. The Melancholia, a name given by the city’s media. The Yardies had claimed a large shipping scrap yard near it. Making the area their headquarters for just over a year. Heracles, who spent most of his time in either an SUV or a hotel room, loathed the district. All the while appreciating its so-called bad-lands perception. It was an annexed territory of the city with no jurisdictional borders. And with such was not the responsibility or problem of any particular regional authority.
Within the fenced off walls of the scrap yard. Heracles awaited the arrival of his business associates. He stood by the main gates as a car pulled up with Frank and two of Que Pasa’s bouncers inside. The stocky pair now moonlighting as Frank’s security. Heracles and Frank exchanged nods before heading into the factory as a second van pulled up. Exiting the vehicle, a group of anxious weed farmers reviewed their surroundings. Struggling to hold eye contact with Heracles’s intimidating crew wh
o then escorted them to the main factory.
Frank felt like a gangster, like the top dog, standing tall amongst the help and the fearful. Heracles saw it on Frank’s face. The young, ambitious man was easy to read.
Wasting little time, the farmers pulled out a small plastic case and removed a small sample of highly potent Ganja. Laced with dopamine-inducing chemicals.
‘This is it, boys.’ Heracles smiled, declaring out loud. ‘The Serbian Mafia and Kane’s degenerates can argue over their stock. But the money is here.’ He said triumphant, holding up the sachet. ‘Our chemists here will continue making this stuff more and more addictive. We don’t need to diversify our business. We merely need to protect it.’ Heracles commanded his men.
Frank got the move immediately, seeing the masterstroke. He understood why Heracles didn’t wish to engage with the Serbians or Kane. With the chem-boys adding more and more dopamine-inducing chemicals to the product, he wouldn’t need to. ‘This is why we supported Vinyar’s venture. Que Pasa will be the hub of distribution, ground zero for the beginnings of a city’s dependency on us.’ Heracles continued.
Frank’s keen mind went further into overdrive, now seeing the killing stroke. This wasn’t cocaine or some form of stimulant that would drive punters to the dance floor or the cash-only bar. THC was a relaxant. Heracles wanted to melt the minds of the city’s population, not push them to the nightlife. Frank always knew both him and Que Pasa were a stepping stone to Heracles. He just didn’t expect the man to be so brazen about it.
So he nodded in approval, presenting himself the naive figure fully on-board with events. He played possum, all the while knowing how fortunate he was to have the aptitude to have formed a plan B. A hidden ace up his sleeve no one in the vicinity, especially Heracles had envisioned.
As Heracles began a self-praising monologue, Frank’s eyes surveyed the interior. The sizeable open factory was two floors tall with the second floor a series of flimsy metal pathways, suspended from the ceiling by chains. Surrounding the meeting and its personnel was a collection of shipping containers. Placed either individual or in stacked pairs, forming a labyrinth of pathways throughout the factory. The corners where the walls and the ceiling met were hidden in shadow as the main lights focused entirely on the ground floor.
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