Subject Nightingale 1: Birth and Death

by Tim Cody

  “Then you run and find me, that's what you do.” Elise folded her arms in return and stared down at her sister.

  “Why don't you give her your pocketknife?” Nightingale suggested. “You keep the butterfly knife.”

  “Yeah, that sounds fair,” Whisper agreed.

  Elise sighed and shook her head as she pulled out her pocketknife. She stared at its red handle, and then nodded and handed it over. Whisper did have a point—she would be better off being able to protect herself if it came down to it. “Fine, but I don't ever wanna see that blade, okay? It is not a toy, and using it against someone else is never your first, second, or even your third choice.” She pulled it out of reach when Whisper tried to grab it. “Understood?”

  “I promise, Elise! I'll only use it if some creeper finds my hiding spot!” She took the knife and immediately pocketed it.

  “You take one, too, Nightingale.” She held one of the butterfly knives out for her.

  Nightingale shook her head in response. “No, I don't need one,” she answered. A knife would probably be the last defense she had to consider.

  “Come on, take it,” Elise insisted. She took Nightingale's hand and pressed the sealed knife into her palm. “You need to protect yourself, too.”

  The instant the knife touched Nightingale's palm, images of its previous owner rushed through her mind. One of the men who had tried to take their new home had quite the illustrious career as a mugger, and appeared fairly skilled with a knife.

  Once she had a grip on the butterfly knife, she flipped its blade open and closed with one hand; quiet, metallic clicks filled the shack as she twirled it around two fingers, spun it in the air and caught it, and then closed it with quite a bit of flourish.

  Elise was stunned at the impressive display, but Whisper shouted, “It's not a toy, Nightingale! Elise just said that!”

  “Oh,” Nightingale said a bit sheepishly as she shoved the knife into her jacket pocket, “sorry...”

  “It's...” Elise began, shaking her head in wonder, “it's okay... Just don't cut yourself, alright?”

  After that, the girls decided to install their new fireplace. Rather than going back to the pit to find a saw, Nightingale volunteered to climb onto the roof and use her new knife to cut out a hole. Whisper and Elise were skeptical that it would be sharp enough to slice through the wood, but Nightingale took it as an opportunity to practice precision cutting with her telekinesis. The resulting hole wasn't exactly a perfect circle, but she got the job done handily enough.

  The wooden disc fell into the shack, and then Nightingale poked her head through. “Told you I could do it!”

  “Great, now get down from there before you fall!” Whisper said, reaching up and tugging a handful of Nightingale's long hair as it swayed.

  “Ack, quit it!” Nightingale pulled back suddenly, pushing against the roof and accidentally shoving herself off. She rolled backward and tumbled to the ground, landing on her back with a thud and a loud, Oof!

  Whisper and Elise rushed out to find her sprawled on the ground, staring up at the sky.

  “Are you alright, Nightingale!?” Whisper shouted, grabbing her hand to help her up. “I'm so sorry!”

  “I'm fine, it wasn't that high up,” Nightingale answered as she stood, dusting herself off.

  “Let's get this thing in before it gets dark, I wanna get a fire going before it gets any colder,” Elise said as she positioned herself to lift the fireplace.

  Whisper propped the door open with a brick and took her place, and Nightingale grabbed an edge as well. They (with a bit of extra assistance from Nightingale) lifted on three, tilted it, and worked it into the shack. They lined the chimney up with the hole and it slipped right in, and just that easily, the fireplace was installed into the corner opposite the door.

  “It looks great!” Whisper said, grabbing some stockpiled wood and tossing it in. “Light it, Nightingale!”

  Nightingale grabbed two sticks like she always did, and leaned her hands into the fireplace. She rubbed them together for a moment and then they caught fire, which quickly spread to the rest of the wood. She took a step back and closed the front grating, and then the three of them watched as the fire burnt bright.

  “It works!” Whisper exclaimed. “We've got a fireplace, Elise! We're gonna be so warm from now on!” The shack was already warming up, so she unzipped her denim jacket. “It's been forever since I've slept without my jacket!”

  Elise smiled and tousled Whisper's hair playfully. “Yep, we're living large, now!” She unbuttoned and slipped out of her peacoat, her gaze drifting from the fireplace to Nightingale. “We're lucky you're so good at starting fires,” she said, her tone borderline suspicious, “you've barely gotta touch two sticks together.”

  Nightingale nodded, her smile suddenly nervous. “Oh, um, yeah... It's just a—”

  “Natural talent,” Elise finished her sentence.

  By the time they had set up their sleeping arrangements—laid out the blankets to soften the floor, lined up their sleeping bags and pillows—the sun had set, and their new home was aglow with the warm and homely light of the fire.

  “We'll go look for another mattress tomorrow,” Elise said. Aside from the pit being emptied soon, she didn't want to leave their new place unattended. Although those two men were clearly not from around here, she still didn't want to take any chances.

  Besides, being able to actually spend the evening in was something she had always wanted to do.

  The girls decided to celebrate with a spaghetti dinner. It was easily the most delicious meal they could make, and with the right ingredients, even a small amount of food could resemble a feast fit for a king. Elise discovered that the grating on the fireplace slid forward to reveal a grill, which was perfect for cooking.

  Once they began eating, Nightingale's bird fluttered to the window and chirped. She let it out to find its own meal, and then sat down with Whisper and Elise. They chatted over dinner, and made plans to find the rest of their furnishings the next day. They continued to talk late into the night, and eventually fell asleep in front of the fireplace.

  Chapter 25

  Why, Oh Why...

  “Hey, wake up,” Whisper said, tugging at Nightingale's hand. “There's something going on across the street.”

  “Hmm?” Nightingale blinked her eyes open and squinted at the sunlight coming in through the window.

  “Elise went to check it out, she told me to wait here.” She walked back to the window and peered across the street, but couldn't spot her sister in the crowd that had gathered around the alley.

  Nightingale shivered and sat up, groping through the blankets for her jacket. The fire had burnt out during the night, but the shack was still a little warm. “Can you see what happened?” she asked.

  “No, there's just a big crowd.” She held on to the windowsill as she watched.

  “I'll go see what's up,” Nightingale said as she stood and zipped up her jacket. Her bird flitted to her shoulder as she stepped outside.

  She yawned and walked across Baker Street, shoving her hands into her pockets as she tried to find Elise in the crowd. With just a bit of focus, she was able to pick out her thoughts from the others, and used that to pinpoint her location. She cut through the spectators and wound up right beside her.

  “What's going on?” she asked, and Elise immediately hugged her. She hid her face on Nightingale's shoulder, and cried hard into her jacket.

  Nightingale frowned in confusion but then spotted the grizzly scene that was the focus of the crowd, and quickly wrapped her arms around Elise in return. She held the back of her head and stroked her hair soothingly, keeping her own eyes away from the scene as well.

  Mister and Misses Grant had been killed—murdered—in the same manner as the recent victims. Their bodies were sprawled out on the pavement, right in front of their own hut.

  “Who would do this, Nightingale?” Elise asked, her voice broken and cracked by sobs. No matter how str
eet tough she was, she had never seen such brutality in person—nothing could have prepared her for seeing the Grants, or anyone, like that.

  “I don't know, Elise, I—” Nightingale began, but cut herself off when that voice rang in her head.

  I was close, my Valkyrie, wasn't I?

  Did you do this? Nightingale asked. She shut her eyes and held her head against Elise's. Did you kill the Grants?

  I knew it! The voice was jubilant. I am so close to Valhalla! My Valkyrie, by your wings I shall ascend!

  Nightingale shook her head and pulled back from Elise. “Elise... Go back, okay? Go home, find Whisper. Stay with her, lock the door, don't let her out of your sight.”

  “What?” Elise shook her head and looked at Nightingale, her eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “What do you mean? What are you gonna do?”

  “Just do what I say, Elise,” Nightingale said. “Hang a curtain over the window, use a blanket or something, and don't open the door for anyone but me.”

  “Do you...” Elise began, sniffling and wiping her eyes. “Do you have your knife on you?”

  “Yeah,” she answered, “but I won't need it. Now go, okay?”

  “Okay... Be careful, Nightingale...” Elise wanted to look back and say goodbye to the Grants, but she didn't. She kept her eyes on the ground as she made her way back through the crowd.

  Nightingale turned toward the Grants' bodies and knelt, keeping her gaze low to avoid looking at the gore. The spectators who were milling about began openly gossiping about her when she reached out to touch Mister Grant's boot, but she ignored their questions and comments.

  She saw his last moments. A man in a dark hoodie, his face protected by thick shadows, crept into their hut in the middle of the night. The Grants were still alive when he dragged them out by their feet, but they didn't wake up. He flipped them onto their fronts and drew a long, jagged blade, and Nightingale winced when she watched him tear open their backs. Their ribcages seemed to crack themselves, giving the killer access to their lungs.

  Her stomach churned as she watched the entire gruesome scene unfold, and then just as silently, the killer wandered off.

  Where are you? she asked.

  You know how to find me.

  I'm not going to play a game of hide and seek. Where are you?

  Fair is fair. The hunter becomes the hunted... If you'll excuse the cliché.

  Nightingale rose to her feet and pushed through the crowd, shoving her way by until she reached the center of the street. She looked left and right and then knelt, placing her fingers on the pavement. She still had the image of the killer wandering off—he headed toward the pit. She shut her eyes and focused on him; she read the ground under his feet, sorting through the countless others who had walked over it since then, and soon she located him.

  He was in an alley just a few blocks away. He was close—too close—to Whisper and Elise. To their new home.

  I'll be waiting, he said.

  Nightingale started in his direction. As she walked, her gait swift and her gaze determined, she heard another voice in her mind: There are still so many children in this place who do not have homes, or families, or anyone to look after them. They were Michaela's words. You are strong, and you are far braver than you even know, Nightingale.

  If she didn't do something about this murderer, he would find her—and she didn't want him to hurt anyone else. She couldn't risk Whisper and Elise getting caught in the middle.

  Glitch squad wasn't afraid to fight—to use their skills, to use their power, to help people. They weren't afraid to kill to protect her or their family.

  Nightingale couldn't be, either.

  “Go fly up and check out the alley,” she whispered to her bird, and it fluttered off her shoulder. She stopped several yards away from where she sensed the killer, and crouched down behind a mailbox. She shut her eyes and saw through her bird's as it perched on a fire escape to keep an eye on things; she spotted him, the hooded man, standing near some trashcans waiting.

  Little bird, little bird, he said, first, second, and third.

  When Nightingale turned the corner and stood at the entrance to the alley, she heard his voice with her own ears.

  “Why, oh why, by your wings... Shall I die.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Nightingale asked. Her entire body was quivering with adrenaline, and her voice was shaky.

  “It's the pain,” the killer answered. “The pain, my great pain... It has led me to you, my Valkyrie.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she replied. “Who are you, what do you want?”

  “I want to ascend.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “To Valhalla! By your wings, it is why I could feel you! In your presence my pain fades, so you truly must be an angel!”

  “I'm not!” Nightingale was losing her temper. “You don't make any sense!”

  “A beauty born amidst combat—a glorious angel of the battlefield!”

  “Stop it!” she yelled. The trashcans rattled and their contents stirred.

  “Yes!” he yelled back. “More!” He dropped to his knees and pulled his hood back, and threw his arms out to his sides as if in prayer. Nightingale immediately noticed a thin laceration that split his face—his entire head—in two; it traveled from the top of his shaved head to his chin, it was identical to hers, and she gasped. “It's the only thing that stops the pain! By your wings I am saved!”

  “What... What are you?” she asked, lifting one hand to her mouth in shock.

  His eyes were sunken in and surrounded by thick, dark bags; he was ghostly pale, he looked like he hadn't slept a day in his entire life. “I am but a mere warrior compared to you, my Valkyrie! A humble servant to your beauty, your power, your might! Release me!”

  “I'm not going to kill you!” Nightingale responded. She needed to know more. “How long have you been like this? What can you do? Who did this to you!?”

  The killer dropped to all fours and crawled toward her. She began to back up, but he lurched forward and clung to the bottom of her jacket. “Release—”

  “Get away!” Nightingale shouted, and sent him flying. She hurled him toward the back of the alley, the chain-link fence at the far end catching him like a mitt.

  “I see, I understand now,” he muttered, grabbing the fence to pull himself to his feet. His sickly thin body flowed like water, straightening his legs out before his back, and then standing well over six feet tall once he was upright. “You have not yet deemed me worthy to see Valhalla. I must prove myself to my Valkyrie.”

  The trashcans and piles of garbage that littered the alley began to rattle, and lifted off the ground. Nightingale could feel the chaotic energy the killer was emitting. He was not in control.

  She caught a trashcan lid inches before it took her head off from behind; it hung suspended in the air, and then flung itself in the opposite direction. Next it was a broken bottle that tried to slice her throat, and then a chunk of cinder block hurled down from up above. Nightingale deflected them easily and without even trying, sending item after item away from herself.

  “No!” the killer yelled when he saw his efforts failing. “No, you must fight! I must prove myself!” He took a step forward and drew his arms back, focusing all his attention into the air around him. He pushed forward with all his might, mental and physical, shouting as he hurled a powerful shock wave toward Nightingale.

  The sheer force of the blast crumbled and shattered the brick walls on either side of the alley, adding a million jagged pieces of shrapnel to the attack. Nightingale shut her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her face, and grunted when the blast hit her. She did her best to deflect the blast itself as well as the shrapnel, but the amazing force sent her sliding back a few feet. Several pieces of brick skimmed her arms and face, opening up her skin, but the small wounds quickly healed.

  Nightingale let her arms go, and they got caught in the blast—just long enough to get her bearings, though, and then she he
aved them forward in a similar manner, pushing the destructive force right back at him. She was much more focused, though; she was trained—Nightingale had a firm grasp on her powers, so the shock wave struck the killer, and consumed him.

  His limbs twisted and bent, his bones cracked and crumbled, and his skin was shredded. When the destructive force finally settled down, he was little more than a tangled mess on the pavement. He was smiling, though, as Nightingale approached him.

  “Yes...” he muttered. “Hngk, my... My Valkyrie...has seen me...as worthy...”

  “No,” Nightingale said, staring down at what was left of the killer. “You're just a murderer. You hurt people—you hurt other peoples' friends, their families... You're not worthy of a single thing, in this life or the next.”

  The killer just grinned, and then Nightingale's butterfly knife opened inside her pocket; in an instant the blade jutted into her belly, cutting clean through her jacket and shirt. She winced as blood seeped out from around the blade and trickled down her belly, onto her pants, and she reached into her pocket to pull the knife out. She flipped it shut and lifted her jacket and shirt, just enough to show off the narrow stab wound.

  “You and I are nothing alike,” Nightingale said as they watched the wound heal itself.

  The killer's eyes went wide at the sight. “You are...a true angel!”

  With a single and simple thought, Nightingale shut down the killer's brain. His entire body went limp; his eyes slipped shut, and with a serene little smile on his face, he died.

  Nightingale's bird landed on her shoulder and chirped, and she nodded along. She knelt and touched the killer's ankle and concentrated.

  She saw him sitting under the SENDS—strapped to a silver throne, just as she had been, but the room wasn't cluttered with tubes. They were laid out nice and neat, and the room was full of people in white coats. Another doctor, one officially sanctioned by the Council, had replaced Metzger.