by T. S. Mann
Not one of the officers he’d encountered since his arrest who’d previously known him for years now remembered or recognized him. In fact, even trying to remind his former friends and co-workers of their past relationships only provoked feelings of anger and, in a few cases, violence, so he gave up trying to prove his identity.
Rafael wondered why he hadn’t already been transferred to a mental health facility since everyone here thought he was crazy. Increasingly, Rafael wondered if they were right given everything he remembered about … that night.
In point of fact, the only reason he had not been placed under psychiatric care (and also the only thing he could point to that suggested he wasn’t insane) was that the investigators could not explain how someone who did not exist in any known database could have gotten hold of an official Mexico City police uniform, a police-issued firearm whose serial number didn’t match any such gun on file, and even an authentic Mexico City police squad car that was nevertheless not a part of the department’s fleet.
He’d been interrogated repeatedly (and with increasing roughness) as to where those items came from, but his answers had not been deemed acceptable due to them sounding like the ravings of a lunatic. Rafael’s insistence that several strange structures, including a 300-foot-tall Aztec pyramid, briefly sprang into existence in the Cuauhtémoc district before disappearing just as quickly did not help his credibility.
In the next room, two men watched Rafael though the two-way mirror. Each wore a professional-looking suit and carried a sidearm and a badge that identified them as agents for the Dirección Federal de Seguridad. The badges were fakes, though flawless in their imitation. But then, magic was good for such deceptions, and the Ministry of Continuity was very good at using magic to insinuate itself into government agencies of all kinds.
The two men, who presently self-identified as Agent Verde and Agent Rojo, had spent the last two weeks running themselves ragged on behalf of the Ministry, just as every other member of the order around the globe had done. Only now that things had calmed down a bit could they address the relatively minor business of a newly-empowered Stranger locked up in a Mexican jail.
“I have the latest update,” said Rojo while holding out a file for his superior.
“Summarize it,” instructed Verde before taking a sip of coffee. Rojo flipped the file open.
“First of all, after consultation with the other Ministry Divisions, the analysts now officially categorize Event 09022010A – short-form ID is ‘Sunkiller’ – as a Category-9 Reality Disruption.”
Verde whistled. “Cat-9? An honest-to-God world-breaker? And we totally missed it until it was all over?”
Rojo shrugged wanly. “We, as in Division 56, never even had a chance to spot it. While Mexico and Mexico City especially were heavily affected, the epicenter was apparently several thousand miles away. And while the scope of the Event was global, the actual duration was less than one minute.”
He flipped a page in his folder.
“Currently, every Division is still busy resolving anomalies and seeking out new Strangers. Miraculously, Sunkiller did not last long enough to cause any actual casualties or significant Reality degradation. But estimates are that at least fifty people around the word went strange, of whom at least five fell to chaos immediately. Three of those have already been identified and terminated, but there are still at least two more nephilim out there.”
“Also, there’s been an action report from Germany where a woman in Potsdam had a violent psychotic break that coincided with Sunkiller. She was detained at a local psychiatric hospital until four nights ago, when she was removed by persons unknown who murdered four mundanes in the process and under circumstance that suggest chaos magic was used. Interestingly, while survivors indicate that they did know her identity when she was brought in, they no longer remember it now, and her medical records still exist but have been magically redacted.”
Verde grunted. “A partial Insight now completed. And probably with the assistance of a nephilim. That or she’s a parahuman who’s been occluded from our sight by a nephilim, which would only have happened if she’s a parahuman with extraordinary gifts.”
He considered the ramifications of that for a moment before deciding that it was the German Division’s problem, not his.
“Anomalies?”
Rojo took a deep breath. “There are over two thousand documented anomalies at this point, including at least a hundred parahumans around the world. Most seem to be low-level anomalies so far, but they’re still being rounded up and cataloged. The worst so far appears to be a bathtub found in a Catholic Church in Idomeni, Greece.”
“… a bathtub?” Verde said dubiously. Rojo consulted the file.
“Yeah. Apparently, it’s completely immovable and perpetually full of holy water despite no evidence that any priest has blessed it.”
“And that’s the worst?”
Rojo coughed. “And also, if you drown a child in it, it will grant a Class 4 Reality-altering wish, a fact that it broadcasts to mundanes in the vicinity through dreams. The Greek Division found it pretty quickly, but there’s concerns that if amnesia spells and wards don’t do the job, it may be necessary to sterilize the town since it’s thus far impossible to remove the anomaly to a containment facility.”
Verde sighed. He hated sterilization orders and was glad not to be a Greek agent on this day. Then, he realized he’d probably jinxed himself. After all, they’d not yet begun debriefing the man before them who still called himself Rafael Ortiz. The new Stranger apparently had police training which would make him an asset to the Ministry … assuming his experiences hadn’t damaged him too much psychologically.
“Do we know who or what caused the Event?”
His subordinate shook his head. “It’s still being tracked. The epicenter seems to have been somewhere in the Northeastern United States. Divisions 6 and 9 are investigating leads.”
Verde snorted. “Probably with the subtlety of a Panzer tank.”
He was not a fan of Division 9, which oversaw the occult community of Washington, D.C. and the surrounding region. But then, it was rare for anyone who interacted with the powerful but ruthlessly paranoid Division 9 to feel any differently.
“It may not stay within their jurisdiction, however. The Divination Bureau has issued a forecast. They say there’s a 67% chance that unknown individuals closely connected to Sunkiller to within two degrees of separation will be entering our jurisdiction within 3-6 months. Probably in Texas.”
“Wonderful,” Verde said drily. “And Ortiz?”
Rojo swapped the Event analysis file for the one about their prospective recruit.
“Ortiz, Rafael. Pre-strangeness, he was a decorated officer with the Mexico City police holding the rank of sergeant. We had no time to deal with him properly after he was initially brought in, so we discreetly dosed him with magic blockers in his food and stuck him in a jail cell until we could get back to him.”
“Preliminary assessment is that he’s a luminor, but only a level two, possibly three. He does have level one attunements to several other Axioms, suggesting a broad range of magical aptitudes rather than a deep focus on one. We tried to keep him from getting hurt in lock-up while his magic was blocked, but there was one incident where a trio of incarcerated gang members tried to rough him up. He took them down quite easily in an obvious display of parahuman strength and dexterity, and he healed his few injuries at an incredible speed. Fear apparently let him overcome the blockers for a few minutes.”
“Interesting. Let’s go meet the man.”
Seconds later, the two Strangers entered the interrogation room. Rafael was surprised to see new faces. Up to now, he’d only been interrogated by detectives he knew.
“Good afternoon, Sgt. Ortiz. My name is Agent Verde, and this is Agent Rojo.”
Rafael blinked. These were the first two interrogators to ever refer to him as “Sergeant,” though he didn’t know yet whether they were acknowledging hi
s rank or simply indulging what they assumed was a delusion.
“Agents Green and Red? That’s a new one. What agency are you with?”
Verde held out an ID badge. To any mundane, it would have identified him as a high-ranking agent of the DFS. As a Stranger, Rafael could see something different. Ministerio de Continuidad.
“Ministry of Continuity? What the hell is that? And what do you want with me?”
“Well, depending on how this conversation goes, the Ministry will hopefully be your new employer. I’m here to offer you a chance to help protect and save the entire world, Sergeant. And to sweeten the deal, I may be able to offer you the chance to get back at the ones responsible for stealing your life away.”
Rafael looked at the two men through narrowed eyes. “Go on," he said guardedly.
Verde pulled out a chair and sat down across from Rafael. “Let’s begin by talking about … magic!”
5 January 2011
The cellphone rang just after 4:00 a.m., and the woman who answered it was, understandably, as groggy as she was angry.
“Hello?” Dani said gruffly.
“Y’all need to come to Dallas,” a voice drawled in a thick Southern accent. “As soon as possible, I reckon.”
“Wha … what the …?!? Cowboy?!? It’s four o’clock in the fucking morning!!!”
“You watch your language now, girly-girl,” the mysterious Stranger known only as The Cowboy chastised. “I know what time it is. And you know I wouldn’t have called if ‘tweren’t an emergency. I think you owe me enough respect to hush up and listen whatever time I call you.”
Dani sat up in bed. Despite herself, she glanced over at the white leather biker jacket hanging in her closet. She’d been trying to wean herself off her near-addiction to wearing the Electra Dellamorte fiction cloak, but she rather wished she were wearing it now. Electra probably would have told him to fuck off and then gone back to sleep. Dani Torres, however, was acutely aware of how much she owed The Cowboy.
(To most people who knew him, the “The” was always capitalized.)
“What is it, Cowboy? What’s your emergency?”
Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. “It’s … actually, to be completely honest, I reckon it’s really your emergency. I’m just delivering the news.”
“Well that sounds promising. Get on with it.” She heard him take a deep breath over the phone.
“It’s about your daddy,” he finally said.
She blinked twice before responding. “My father’s dead, Cowboy,” she said with finality.
The Cowboy sighed in annoyance. “Well, okay. If you need me to be more precise, it’s about your father’s corpse! It appears to have busted out of his coffin, dug itself up out of his grave, and run off into the night. There may have been a demon involved. Too early to tell yet.”
Dani sat in silence while she processed that.
“I’ll be down there on the next flight,” she finally said. “Try not to burn Dallas down before I get there.”
The Cowboy snorted loudly in amusement. “No promises, girly-girl. Sometimes, violence is just what works best.”
She hung up the phone and got out of bed to reach for the jacket. She shivered warily as she touched the enchanted material. “To not be Electra for a while” had been her New Year’s resolution … and she’d made it less than five days. But her former mentor (and occasional enemy) was right, of course. Sometimes, violence was what worked best.
And no one did violence as elegantly or as well as Electra Dellamorte.
TO BE CONTINUED IN
STRANGERS IN DALLAS
