Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  “Are you sure you won't take anything else for the pain, sir?”

  “This is my pain to feel,” he grunts, spluttering blood down his chin. Gregor wipes it away with a handkerchief, like a doting mother.

  “You've felt enough pain, sir.”

  “Gregor, you promise,” the King says, his voice a thin rasp now. “You promise that when I'm gone: you'll carry on my work.”

  “I will,” he whispers, his eyes welling up. “I'll continue your work.”

  “Good boy, Gregor,” his last breath shudders from his body, and with the last of his strength he squeezes Gregor's hand. “I nearly did it. It nearly worked.” His eyes open, and he looks into Gregor's eyes. “It nearly worked.”

  Gregor almost says goodbye.

  But before he can say a thing, two balls of flaming red energy smash through the roof. They hang there in front of them, like murky pools of blood held in the air.

  The men both tense up and cry out in fear: the objects give off waves of poisonous desire and sickening, bloody glee.

  Then the fire changes them both.

  End of Series 2

  Series 3

  Trespasser One feels unusual wearing a coat.

  He stalks down the dark and quiet streets of Glasgow's west end, past angled houses with huge windows, only half of them lit. Scaffolding hangs over the streets like ragged bones, evidence of the reconstruction. Patches of the concrete and metal are still melted away from the Destroyer's attack.

  The Trespasser is little more than a shadow in an overcoat and a winter hat, huffing into his hands to keep them warm. Winter clings to him like a cold.

  Then he passes a door that has been torn off and replaced with a sheet of black bin bags. Blue and white police tape gives a clear signal not to enter.

  Bingo.

  Trespasser One vanishes off the street, leaving a thin cut in the barrier where he enters. In the shadow of an abandoned close leading to a dingy stairwell, he discards the hat and coat. Standing in his full armour, he flexes his joints and relaxes; now he's comfortable.

  He takes a minute to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, pulling his face mask from his belt and putting it on. From his webbing he produces a small torch and flicks it on. The beam lights up the motes of dust hanging like thoughts in the air, moving only when he brushes past them to ascend the stairs.

  A sharp buzzing in his helmet throws him off guard, and he twitches and goes for his pistol before he realises what it is:

  Comms unit.

  He presses it in. “This is Trespasser One.”

  The voice that comes back is neither patient nor happy.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Off duty, Command.”

  “Trespasser's don't go off duty. We can see where you are, explain yourself.”

  “I'm not sure I follow.”

  “I want to know what you think you're doing at a crime scene.”

  “I think you know damn fine what I'm doing here.”

  “It's been months, Trespasser One, let this go -”

  Trespasser One rips out the comms unit and crushes it under his boot heel. He ascends the staircase without a sound and comes to a doorway.

  Doorway; no door.

  There are two gnarled pieces of metal that were once hinges, and splinters and torn wood where a door used to sit. Now there's just tape: police, do not enter, crime scene, so on, so forth.

  Trespasser One cuts through it, but hesitates before he steps through.

  The smell.

  It's a smell he's intimately familiar with, even through his mask. Despite his experience, he is unsure of how to describe it. Tangy metal, maybe. Stuffy, heady like petrol, but sharp on the tongue, like bile.

  It's blood; death.

  Somebody has died here, violently.

  As he walks through the hallway into an unlit flat, the Trespasser draws his pistol – mostly for his own comfort. It takes a lot to unnerve him, but the hairs on his neck are standing up. Something's wrong.

  He listens to his subconscious, following the little clues his eyes are missing. Scuffs on the wall – a struggle, perhaps – leading past two doors and into the living room.

  Trespasser One's torch is the only light, and the beam shows him where the windows once were; they've been blown out, but there's next to no glass on the carpet.

  Blown out from the inside then.

  Stun grenade, thinks the Trespasser. Or something else that he'd rather not consider.

  There's little furniture – the place feels like a TV set. Furnished, but not lived in. Tables and chairs, but none of the marks that betray a life.

  He knows better than to try the light switch, no matter how frustrated he is by the darkness. He can't see what he needs to; clues, markings -

  He plays the light beam over the room and stops dead.

  Vines run along the skirting board of one wall. Some of them are flowering. Along the other skirting boards, little pieces of grass are poking through.

  Now that he sees it, it's everywhere. Moss on the ceiling. The branches of a dead tree creeping out from a doorway like a skeletal hand. Dripping leaves from rotting flowers hanging off book cases.

  “Plants?” he whispers to himself.

  Dirt seems to have been thrown across the floor, evenly, like a blood spray. It comes from a corner where two walls meet.

  The Trespasser steps closer, taking care not to disturb the dirt. Crouching down, he shines the beam at the wall.

  Despite his years of experience, he finds himself unsettled.

  There's a silhouette of a man on the wall, a reverse-shadow surrounded by intense burn marks. It looks like somebody showed this man the sun up close.

  He rubs his gloved hand on the burn marks and frowns.

  What he thought were burns are, in fact, dirt, sprayed against the wall hard enough to stick, leaving a blank, white space in the shape of a person.

  The Trespasser stands up and steps back.

  “What the hell happened here?” he mutters, and almost pulls out a camera.

  Too late he hears the soft tread of footsteps behind him. He spins and drops to one knee, pistol drawn and coming up, safety off -

  He sees himself.

  Rather, he sees a figure that looks just like him.

  Another Trespasser with its hands raised.

  It shouts at him. “Don't shoot. Stand down, Trespasser One.”

  He'd know that voice anywhere.

  “Trespasser Two,” he sighs, and lowers his gun. “You nearly got two through the forehead there, what the hell were you thinking?”

  The large Trespasser in front of him lowers his hands.

  “Command wants to ask you the same thing. You're in an off limits area. You're supposed to be recuperating.”

  The other Trespasser has the kind of accent that Hollywood action heroes do – another American, taking over the role of Trespasser Two after his predecessor was killed in action.

  “Off limits?” asks Trespasser One. “I thought we had all agreed there was no such thing where Trespassers are concerned. Not after the Kingdom fiasco.”

  “Command just wants to know what the hell you're up to. You're not communicating.”

  Trespasser One holsters his pistol and looks around.

  “What am I up to? I could ask Command the same thing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, look at this crime scene and tell me what you see.”

  Trespasser Two steps past him and produces his own torch. He scans it over the details and hums to himself, before turning to Trespasser One and coughing. His eyes looks uncertain through his mask; distracted.

  “Murder scene. Close range exposure to intense heat -”

  “Those aren't burn marks on the wall, Two. That's dirt.”

  “Ok, intense exposure to, uh...”

  “A lawn mower? Come on. Something went weird here.”

  Two looks at him side ways out his mask. “Powers?”

  “Th
at's my thinking, and it gets worse.”

  “Oh?”

  “Take your comms unit out and crush it.”

  “Uh -”

  “Do it. Trust me.”

  Two shrugs, and does as he is asked, crunching it into the carpet then picking it up and pocketing it.

  “Ok, what?”

  “I've been doing this all day. I've already visited three other crime scenes like this one. In one of them, somebody spontaneously combusted – phwoof, burst in flames, no reason. In another, there were the kind of plasma burns you get from lightning. All within single rooms. The third one was fairly straight forward, but the fridge was full of dead animals and the victim's heart had ended up three metres from their body.” Two says nothing – he isn't looking Trespasser One in the eye. Trespasser One continues regardless. “This is number four. My guess is the guy had some kind of power over nature, plants or something. Then he was murdered. Something hit him hard enough to leave his shadow on the wall. These are all unusual murders, indicative of powered individuals, that haven't been brought to our attention.”

  “Well,” mutters Two, “I'm sure Command has his reasons for keeping this from us.”

  “The last time our superior kept something from us, it was a warlord ruling over the entire city in secret – with the Agency turning a blind eye.”

  “The King? But he's gone.”

  Trespasser One laughs. “You sure? They find a body yet?”

  “Almost everyone in the city centre died when the Destroyer -”

  “No body, no death. The King could still be out there. And what did he try to do when the first wave of powered people hit?”

  Two sighs. “He tried to recruit them -”

  “He tried to recruit them. Mark kills the Destroyer months back; it splits itself into smaller pieces like the original fire did, right? Six pieces? How many have we found and neutralised?”

  “None?”

  “None. Yet I count four dead. That leaves two.”

  “Ok?”

  “So what if this time the King did get to them? What if he's got two powered people under his thumb already, and these four are the ones who refused his offer?”

  “Trespasser One,” number two lowers his voice, “man, I think you're obsessing a bit over this King character. Even if he is alive, he has no power -”

  “Or,” One stops him. “Maybe he has a shit load of it, and now he's burned through all the powered people the Destroyer left. Maybe he's ready for something new, and we've done absolutely nothing to prepare.”

  Two walks away, takes off his mask, and runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn't reply.

  “Trespasser Two?” asks One, stepping forward. The look on Two's face is enough; he sees what's happening. “Oh bloody hell. You knew?”

  “I'm sorry, man, Command has his reasons -”

  “For keeping this from me? They'd better be bloody good reasons -”

  “Ok, ok, calm down,” says Two, raising his hands as Trespasser One approaches. “Listen, you know yourself that you've got – y'know, connections to powered people. Alright? If Command let you know that people with powers were being killed, you'd push for action.”

  “You're bloody right I would! Why wouldn't I?”

  “Because if the King does have powered people on his side? If he is back? Then man, he might have people in the Agency – and if he does, any action against him will give away our hand. He'll get away. We can't risk that.”

  “So I'm a liability now, is that it?”

  “Command doesn't want you going off and giving the game away. If this is the King, we need absolute secrecy at all but the highest levels. He had people in the Agency the last time; you know all this, man.”

  Trespasser One lets out a breath and holds his head in his hand.

  “You want me to stop investigating this?”

  “Command does.”

  “How do I know my friends – my squad, sorry – are safe.”

  “They're in safe houses, two to a structure, watched over by us twenty-four-seven, you know all this.”

  “Yeah, but are they being protected against the kind of thing that has been killing powered people?” Trespasser One points to the shadow on the wall. “Do we know what we're dealing with?”

  “There's no we here, Trespasser One.”

  He stops. “What?”

  “I'm sorry. Command isn't letting you on this operation. I could be terminated for even telling you about it.”

  Trespasser One straightens up and lowers his voice. He steps in close to Two.

  “What if I pursue this anyway?”

  “Then I'll be forced to stop you, I'm sure.”

  “And how do you think that'll work out for you?”

  “I think I'll end up in the infirmary. You're One, I'm Two, it's that way for a reason. No shame in admitting it.”

  Trespasser One looks around at the murder scene, then back at Two.

  “You know I'm not coming back in with you, man. If the King is still out there, I'm going after him.”

  Two looks at the ground. “I was afraid you'd say that.”

  Trespasser One lowers his voice. “Are you gonna try and stop me?”

  Two shakes his head. “I need to know what to tell Command though.”

  “Tell him you did try to stop me. Tell him I'm going off on my own, that the Agency can consider this my resignation, and that if I get a good lead I'll phone in. Tell him not to come after me, and tell him that I'm doing this alone – I'll need to gather my squad without him knowing.”

  “Your squad? What, the civilians?”

  “They've seen combat, they aren't civvies any more.”

  “You're going to try and find the King with them as your only backup?”

  “Oh, I've got Command's number if it gets too heavy. At least this way we know there'll be no leaks, right? I effectively no longer exist. No records, no leaks. The Agency won't even know I exist anymore.”

  “I, uh, I guess so.”

  “Good. Sorry about this, by the way.”

  “About wh -”

  Trespasser One unclips his tazer and fires it into Two's thorax, where his armour separates. As Two falls back, Trespasser One follows him to the ground, knocking him out with a snapping punch to the forehead. His eyes roll back.

  “Nothing personal, mate,” he whispers, and leaves.

  Trespasser One picks up his jacket and hat on the way out, shivering as the cold air bites at him again. He lifts an old mobile phone out of his coat pocket and calls an old number.

  “Hello?” he mumbles as it answers. “Yeah, it's me. One. You remember that favour you owe me? Mhm. Information. People in safe houses. Yes I know it'll take some time, just give me what you can, when you can.”

  His voice trails off as he shuffles into the night.

  Episode 1

  House Call

  Two Days Later

  Mark sits on the edge of a black leather sofa in shorts and a vest, drinking tap water out a bottle with the label torn off. Placing it down, he pushes his hair away from his face, scratches the beard growing across his face like thick fur, and stands up.

  “Stacy?” he shouts, and his booming voice carries throughout the flat, drowning out the sound of traffic outside.

  When she pokes her mousy face through the door, Mark notes the streaks of motor oil finger-prints on her cheeks.

  “What?”

  “Two things,” he smiles. “First off, clean your face -”

  “I'm not finished yet.”

  “Second: could you hang around just in case, you know, the nose thing happens again?”

  “Oh Mark, not again,” she groans, and throws the door open as she enters the living room. She's wearing a set of blue overalls stained with oil and grease, smelling like a motorway. Her brown hair is tied back tight, pulling her eyebrows up to make her look constantly surprised. “We talked about this. I thought you were going to pack it in.”

  “Nope,” he shrugs,
and nods to the massive barbell on the floor, enough plates on either side to wheel a train.

  “Do you have any drink nearby?”

  “No -”

  “Well go and get some, you nearly died last time -”

  “That was last time,” he tries to reassure her with a smile. “I'm stronger now.”

  “Ok hold on,” she sighs, rubs her eyes with her wrists, and goes to her room. A second later she returns with half a bottle of red wine, and shakes it. “Ok, now you can try it.”

  “Thank you,” he laughs, and stands over the weights.

  Bending his knees, Mark grips the bar in both hands and takes the strain with his arms. The muscles bulge from his wiry frame, and he grits his teeth and lets out a tense breath.

  “Ok,” he grunts.

  Mark straightens his body, pulling himself tight and lifting the weight with every muscle in his body. Tendons go taught, and his face reddens as he begins to shake. To anybody else, it would be an incredible, Herculean feat of strength – but Stacy has seen Mark punch through steel, and she folds her arms and watches him struggle with a weight that should be trivial.

  His back won't straighten. The plates bend the bar as he tries to rise again, and his legs and arms begin to tremble.

  “Mark, put it down,” she says, shaking her head. “You've hit the wall, mate.”

  He shakes his head, a tiny movement she almost doesn't pick up.

  “Mark -” she protests again, and his eyes burn a hole through her. She stops, seeing the determination in his face. “Mark, you're going to hurt yourself.”

  She sees the first trickle of blood from his nose, the same colour as his trembling face, sees the spittle frothing from his lips, and does what she has to.

  Closing her eyes, Stacy reaches out with her mind and feels the only mechanical part of the bar – the keys keeping the weights on. She feels herself thinking in spirals as she twists them off, and then -

  The weights drop off the ends of the bar with a clatter, and Mark's legs straighten so fast that he crashes through the couch and embeds himself in the wall. Stacy flinches back, opening her eyes once silence falls. She finds Mark, who is sitting breathless in the wall, surrounded by bare brick whilst broken plaster falls over him like snow.