Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  “Of course he's not ok, Don,” says Cathy, sitting across from him. “Honestly, I thought doctors were taught about this stuff.”

  “We are: it's best to talk about these things. Keeping it all cooped up won't help.”

  “Aye, Don, but so soon? Give the boy time.”

  Jamie looks at the alarm clock, watching as Stacy turns the hands forward in time, and then back. His eyes narrow, his face stony.

  “What?” asks Stacy, seeing the look on his face. “What are you thinking?”

  “I'm thinking that I can stop time,” says Jamie, and looks up into her nervous eyes. “I've never tried pushing it back -”

  Before he can finish his sentence, the Trespasser throws the door open and storms into the room, his helmet on but his mask absent.

  “Turn on the TV,” he points at the brown antique sitting on an office desk. “Now.”

  Donald, the closest to it, barely gets out of his seat before Stacy closes her eyes and switches it on without touching it.

  The colours bring the screen to life, and the Trespasser flicks the channel over using a dusty button on the bottom of the TV.

  Impatient silence suffocates the room.

  Jamie stands up, hands over his mouth, as Mark's face appears on the screen and his voice fills the room.

  “That no-use bastard,” whispers Jamie, grinning.

  Trespasser One claps his back. “I've got a chopper coming for us, we're going to pick him up. Up to the roof, now.”

  “No, no,” says Jamie, pawing him away and sitting down, beaming at the screen with one eye still swollen shut. “I want to hear this.”

  The King sits in the gloom of his office whilst Gregor stands aside him, wearing a suit similar to the King's, his hair still wet from the shower he insisted upon taking – to 'wash the poverty off himself'.

  Around them stand a crowd of similarly dressed men and women, each wearing long black coats. The scene resembles a funeral: a damp room filled with dark-eyed people staring at a pale-faced man in the centre.

  That pale man is the King, and the colour has drained from his eyes and lips as he watches the tiny phone screen on his desk, casting a sickly white light over him, illuminating the tired rings under his eyes.

  “Attack helicopters still circle the prison,” says the newsreader, a balding man with trendy, thick-rimmed glasses, “but the sounds of gunfire have finally stopped. What little information we do have points to an unsettling prospect: that the fugitive known as the King – currently the most wanted man in the western hemisphere – intended to unleash his followers upon the city of Glasgow en-masse. Yet again the people of Glasgow must watch the military tear their city to pieces; another blow in a long and difficult struggle to return this city to normality.”

  Gregor leans in, his shirt and suit jacket open to let his bandaged ribs breathe. A bile-coloured bruise has spread over most of his torso. He whispers, informing the King as an advisor would inform a General of a military defeat:

  “Our men in the prison aren't answering calls, sir. We can assume that they're lost.”

  The King says nothing, staring straight ahead into the screen. He cracks his knuckles, and then lets out a deep sigh.

  “No matter,” he says. “We managed to injure one of them, right?”

  “Correct, sir. The same one that struck you on the eve of your arrest.”

  “Jamie. His name is Jamie.”

  “As I understand, sir, yes.”

  “And you buried Mark under his own building.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then we've hit all of our objectives. You said that the prisoners – they were thwarted by other people with powers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. We need more information on them. If they are indeed using these powered people in field operations, Gregor, then we currently have the advantage. They aren't trained soldiers – we killed Mark and injured Jamie, and showed that we are a capable and legitimate threat. They'll be reeling. They won't be thinking straight – and that makes them easy bait.”

  “What would you have us do, sir?”

  “They'll want revenge. Move me to a secure location then fake a leak of my whereabouts, rig it to blow or gas them or whatever – you handle the details. My guess is that they'll be unable to resist the temptation to come and get me. I killed their superman, after all.”

  “As you wish, sir,” says Gregor, bowing. “And the arrival?”

  “Stick to the plan. Track the fire as it falls, find the people it hits, and persuade them to come with you using our usual methods.”

  “Intimidation and threats, sir? Those methods worked before, but they do depend upon us having a firm grasp on the city.”

  “For all they know, I still have the details on almost every person in the city centre. Allude to their family's safety, be vague but firm. Make the Agency out to be the bad guys. Handle the details, Gregor; like I said.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long is left, anyway?”

  “Until the arrival, sir? Just under one hour.”

  “Then the first hours of a new Kingdom are approaching. Wait until just before the arrival to spring the trap; we want them far enough away that they can't affect our mission even if it fails, ok? Don't forget to...”

  The King trails off, his face dropping in the pale light as the news switches to another story.

  Across the bottom of the screen, in white writing on a red card, it reads:

  Superhero Speaks Out

  The room drops in temperature as though a chill breeze had blown through. The King stares into the screen, into the eyes of a man he is coming to hate more than anybody else in the world.

  Mark, plastered across his TV screen, with his face covered in ash, soot and sweat, smiles and stares right back at him.

  “I want to say something, and then I'll answer your questions.” Mark tells the crowd, and looks straight into the nearest camera. “Innocent people died tonight. This building was once a project called the Gardens, and I set it up myself to help Glasgow's less fortunate break the cycle of poverty and abuse that many were trapped in. The King didn't like that: for years he put financial pressure on me, eventually driving me into poverty like those I tried to help. He intended to have me killed; it didn't work out for him. He was exposed for what he is: a coward, who ruled through fear and intimidation; who preyed on those too weak to fight back. I was the one that brought him in, and I stand here before you: unmasked, and unafraid.”

  Gregor looks at the King in alarm, his mouth flapping open as he begins to explain. The King raises a hand for silence and stops him, watching the screen like a hawk, never once blinking.

  “My name is Mark. The King tried to kill me once before. Later, he almost killed me again – and my mother, bless her – but that didn't work out either. This is the third time that he has made an attempt on my life, and as you can see,” Mark laughs and spreads his arms out, revealing his scarred and bruised torso, “I'm still here.”

  The King leans forward, his elbows on the desk, as Mark continues.

  “The King burned my project to the ground because he knew it would hurt me. He won't fight me in the open, because in the open he has no power. He's a shadow, and we all know what happens to shadows when you shine the light on them. We don't have to be afraid of him anymore.” Mark steps down from the ledge of the fire engine as he talks to the crowd, his voice growing louder. “He murders innocent people, terrifies anybody with something to lose into compliance, and relies on cowardly tactics to strike at those strong enough to oppose him.”

  The camera zooms in on Mark as he delivers the ending to his speech.

  “I know you're watching this, King. I know you're sitting in a bunker or an office somewhere, about to snap and lose your temper. Glasgow knows what you are now. I'm not afraid of you; we're not afraid of you. And I don't care how long it takes me: I'm coming for you. I'll find you – and you'll answer for every life that you've destroyed.” Ma
rk looks around at the crowd, nodding his head. “That's all.”

  They surge forward, pressing him with questions. He winces, raising his hands for quiet.

  “One at a time, one at a time,” he sighs. “You,” he points at a female journalist. “You go first. There's no rush.”

  “I'd like to ask the question on the public's lips: would you consider yourself a superhero?”

  Mark looks at her, his face suddenly contorted with a mixture of thoughts and feelings. He thinks for a few seconds, staring at the ground, and then shrugs.

  “There's no such thing, ma'am.”

  The questions fly in.

  The King leans forward, with so much careful patience that it silences the room, and turns the phone off. He takes a deep breath, lifts the phone, and turns to face the crowd as he stands. Passing the phone back to its nervous owner, he smooths his suit down and turns to Gregor.

  Gregor is shaking, clutching his ribs and looking at the King with all the hopeless shame of a guilty puppy.

  “H-he was dead when we left him, sir -”

  The King barely moves. His entire body tenses and he drives his fist hard into Gregor's broken ribs. With a soft cough, Gregor crumples to the floor, and the King returns to his professional stance, hands clasped behind his back. He steps over Gregor, whose face is screwed up in pain, spittle coating his chin as he tries to get a breath.

  “Everything, Gregor,” whispers the King, whilst his people look on, nobody daring to intervene. “Everything depended on your mission.”

  “M'sorry,” groans the wounded man, writhing in pain. He looks up at the King with honest tears in his eyes.

  “The Agency will be rejoicing. I have spent resources that I cannot afford to waste on this plan. I sacrificed a prison full of potential. I gave you most of our explosives. A lot of men died to make this plan work. All so that we had the advantage when the arrival comes.”

  “I can,” Gregor gasps for every word. “I can fix it.”

  “Do you know what pains me the most though, Gregor? Not that you wasted my manpower. Not that you wasted my resources; but that you wasted my time, Gregor. The arrival is coming, and we have nothing. All we have to show for our efforts are a few stab wounds and two dead Trespassers.”

  He lifts his foot from the ground and rests his weight on Gregor ribs. The crowd say nothing, staring at the floor and trying to pretend that none of this affects them; that they are outsiders. Gregor cries out and tries to move away, but the King presses harder. The crowd ripples in disgust as they hear a faint crack, and Gregor opens his mouth in a silent scream.

  The King stares down at him as though he were filth on his shoe, sneering. He sighs and the anger leaves his face.

  Taking his weight off of Gregor, he turns to the crowd.

  “He's suffered enough. Get him to a medic.” The King steps back as two men come in and pick Gregor up, his jaw slack and his eyes unfocused. “Don't let it be said that I am without mercy.”

  “Sir,” a woman in a long black coat steps into the light, her face held still with practised apathy. “What shall we do regarding the arrival?”

  “How long is left?”

  “About forty five minutes.”

  “Do we have people in the city centre?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then the plan goes ahead. We're depending on speed and cunning now, and we're up against very smart opponents. They'll be expecting us. Do your best.”

  The door opens and Gregor is dragged out, his feet scraping along the floor as he groans, regaining consciousness.

  “The rest of you,” the King says. “Get out. I don't want to see you back here until after the arrival, when you have control of the latest batch of assets.”

  The room empties as though a plug has been pulled, leaving the King in the fluorescent gloom by himself. He waits until the door clicks closed and he can no longer hear footsteps, and then he begins counting down from ten, breathing to calm himself.

  He makes it to five, and then he roars in impotent rage and upends the table onto the floor, cursing at the top of his lungs.

  The helicopter lands atop the roof of a block of flats two streets down from the ruins of the Gardens, staying away from the pillar of smoke still rising from the burning rubble. Jamie is the first out the helicopter's ramp, standing on the gravel roof as Mark vaults onto it.

  Tearing his broken mask off despite the Trespasser's protests, the two meet in the middle and shake hands before embracing.

  “Thought you were dead mate,” says Jamie, patting Mark on the back.

  “So did I.”

  Jamie breaks the hug and punches him hard on the arm. “You had us all in some state.”

  “I was probably worse, believe me.”

  “Stop running into stupid situations, eh?”

  “I know, man. I know.”

  The Trespasser emerges from the helicopter.

  “Do I get to say it?” he asks Mark.

  “Say what?”

  “That I bloody told you so,” he says, and claps his shoulder. “Glad you're ok, Mark. Jamie, you give us a minute?”

  “Sure,” says Jamie, and heads back to the chopper.

  “What's up?” asks Mark, as the Trespasser's face fogs over in the darkness.

  The joy is suddenly gone from his voice. “What the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  “You ran in there like an idiot. Nearly got yourself killed.”

  “I know, it was stupid of me.”

  “Not only did you jeopardise the mission with your actions, Mark: you allowed the King's men to take your equipment. Your helmet was used as bait. We tried to rescue you and he lured us into a prison filled with his men. Two Trespasser's died trying to save you Mark – and all for nothing.”

  Mark falls silent, and stares past the Trespasser into the night sky, the stars out.

  “Shit,” he sighs.

  “Jamie and myself were nearly among that body count.” The Trespasser steps in close, and Mark can smell the gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood off him. “Do you understand why I am angry, Mark?”

  He nods. “I'm sorry.”

  “Now, about taking your mask off in front of the camera: that's your choice. I can't stop you. But I do have to ask: what were you thinking?”

  “They took my mask, like you said,” he shrugs. “I don't need it anyway.”

  “Mark, you aren't invincible. You're putting yourself and your mother at risk.”

  “Am I? She's safe in the facility. Meanwhile, the King has this weird mythology surrounding him, making him out to be some kind of ageless demon – the people need to see him for what he is. They need somebody to follow, Trespasser.”

  “And you're that person?”

  Mark shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. At least I can set an example.”

  “Mark, this man has declared war on you. This isn't a comic book; this isn't a god damned movie. He's almost killed you three times, Mark.”

  “If we do nothing, Trespasser, then he wins. I want the people to see that he's only as powerful as they let him be. I had to show them that I'm not afraid of him.”

  “Aren't you? Because you have every reason to be.”

  “Of course I'm afraid of him,” says Mark, tensing up. “I'm petrified of him. I can barely sleep, for Christ's sake, just remembering the moments that he had me at the edge. I'm terrified; but I can't let him know that. I can't let the people see that. Because then he wins.”

  “Okay.”

  “What, that's it?”

  “You can't take it back now, can you?” The Trespasser shrugs. “Your face is out there. So now we run with it.”

  “I'm not fired or anything?”

  The Trespasser puts his hands on his hips.

  “After a stunt like this?” he tuts. “Command might want you off the team, I won't lie. It's his call, not mine. Your actions cost the lives of two great soldiers, and Command might judge you accordingly.”

  Mark
nods, taking this in. “I understand.”

  “Look, Mark; they were soldiers. They knew the risks. Taking a bunch of civilians into an operation like this was never going to be easy. I'll do what I can, but right now we have another priority. Are you ok to do your job?”

  “My job?”

  “Arrival's in twenty five minutes, Mark. Did you forget?”

  “Shit, so it is,” says Mark, patting himself down. “I'm just in this jacket, I've no overalls or -”

  “No time to get replacements. You're fighting in your pyjamas by the look of it.”

  Mark sighs. “No cape?”

  “No cape, Mark. You said it yourself on the TV: there's no such thing as superheroes. I hope you realise that now.”

  Mark nods, his shoulders sagging. “Let's go, then.”

  “Are you in?”

  “I'm in.”

  “Good man. Do well, and Command might look on you favourably.”

  “What are my chances?”

  “Slim.”

  Mark sighs as he climbs the ramp into the helicopter, his problems momentarily alleviated by the grinning faces that stare back at him, shouting his name.

  He greets them with a smile, and for that moment, everything is ok.

  Episode 9

  Arrival

  “Glasgow's quiet tonight.”

  The Trespasser voice is low, as though he dare not break the silence hanging over the city. Silhouettes flicker and then vanish in the darkness below them, the citizens of Glasgow scurrying to their homes, like prey sensing the wolves.

  “You can feel it in the air,” says Jamie, joining him on the rooftop, a new unbroken mask in his hands.

  The squad gathers on the gravel, whilst the Trespasser kneels over the parapet like a king surveying his lands.

  “People can sense something is going to happen,” he agrees.

  “How long now?” asks Mark, unscrewing the top from his back-up flask and gulping the contents down. He stands in a spare pair of shorts and nothing else. A little spills down his stubble, over his bare chest.

  “Five minutes. We should be able to see it soon.”