Failure.
My hand is trembling as it unclips the flashlight from my belt, bringing it up to my face. It’s almost impossible not to freeze with fear, but the only thing more scary than trying to move around in secret up here is being paralyzed and, ergo, trapped. Penny needs you to do this, I tell myself, repeating it as if starting to form a new mantra to replace my old. You have to do this, you have to see this through. For Penny. I suck in a deep breath to steady myself, grit my jaw against my raging headache, and click the button on the side of the torch six times in quick succession.
Three flashes of light. The amber warning.
I steel my nerves and brace myself for an explosion of commotion from below, for the alarm to be raised at the sudden appearance of a small Anomaly on the roof of the van with a flashing light, but it never happens.
I hardly dare to exhale. My body is stiff and refuses to move, but I will myself forward, carefully opening Penny’s WrightTech laptop and plugging in one of the cables. While it’s booting up, I grope both hands around the base of the satellite dish, searching for the panel I know I’ll find. Shortly after I shacked up with B.L.A.Z.E., Penny and Alfie wound up fleeing a scene in a KING News truck a little smaller than this one, and I was given the highly enjoyable task of dissecting it in order to learn how better to hack, intercept, and even control its broadcasting systems.
I always knew the experience would come in handy. I just wasn't aware exactly how hands-on my application of the knowledge would wind up being.
The access panel flips open easily beneath my fingers, and I plug myself in. I hope the entire KING News nationwide audience appreciates the humor of the general American public, I muse with a nonchalance I imagine keeps the others going during dangerous field operations. I open the software I had pre-loaded and punch in several long commands, one right after another.
All I need now is something Penny apparently brought with her, thought I'm afraid I'll have to see it to believe it:
Luck.
I cast a brief glance over at Duncan. He’s standing alert, his eyes glued to the bonnet of the truck, which concerns me greatly. Without shifting so far forward that I lose my balance, I peek over the front of the van, trying to get a glimpse at what he's staring at.
What I notice causes my breath to catch in my throat. Cameras are already pointing at a clean-cut man in a rich black suit paired with a gold ascot, a man I recognize immediately as KING News’ highly-esteemed Michael Kay.
“We’re live in five,” announces a crew member from the ground, “four… three…”
No, we’re not, I answer inwardly. I wiggle my mousepad and ready my dummy feed, having selected the appropriate footage for such a momentous occasion in British televising history: the moment B.L.A.Z.E. stole its revenge in the last way anybody saw coming.
“Two…!”
“Good evening, nationals of Britain,” comes the well-known catchphrase of our country’s top news personality. “We are coming to you live from the Southern Fringe county of West Sussex for this sensational developing story…”
No, I think, and I can’t help but grin. You’re not coming live to anybody, Michael.
The only thing that’s coming to anybody via the airwaves of KING News at this very moment is a rather hooky little number from the tail-end of the 1980s; the signature song of a particular English singer-songwriter many of them probably haven’t thought about for years, since Britain closed off public access to the global Net.
I may have just reintroduced the ‘nationals of Britain’ to the phenomenon of Rickrolling. And I’m not even in the least bit sorry.
You can talk crap and spew hate all you want, Mr. Kay. We’ve got something a lot more entertaining to watch on the telly tonight.
“OI! What the bloody hell you doing up here!?”
The sudden holler from my left scares me enough that I cry out in shock, rolling over onto my side away from it. My butt skids on the smooth curved metal, and my hands slam down against it, clawing and scraping for purchase. But there’s nothing to hold onto and the entire crew seem to be staring up at the top of the van as I slide off of it, dropping like a stone to the ground and landing in a heap with a yelp.
Bugger, bugger, bugger—!
“Who is that?”
“What the fuck!”
“How long’s he been up there?”
“Wait, has he been fucking with—”
“Who gives a fuck! Grab him!”
I can’t tell which way is up and it feels like the building pressure in my head is finally about to make my skull explode. It seems fitting, that I would go out in such an ungraceful and pathetic manner: death due to incapacitating migraine whilst Rickrolling the rest of the country. Boots scuff through the gravel, kicking up dust. I feel a hand tangle in my hair, and another seize the back of my jeans.
Panic sets in. My world sharpens to a pinpoint, a narrow looming tunnel with a single speck of light. Every hair stands on end, my muscles grow taut, and a surge of adrenaline sends my entire body bucking up off the ground and, somehow, down into the confines of my clothing.
Predator mode: off. Prey mode: on.
Every single one of my senses has honed itself to a point I’ve never known before. I can smell asphalt and taste grass and salt on the air. I can hear the thrashing of half a dozen quickened heartbeats, the whirring of hardware and engines inside the van itself. My hands and feet are on fire, every pore of my skin bursting with the most irritating itch.
But through all of it, despite every overbearing and overwrought sense, a single command becomes the full focus of my attention, the center of all my thoughts. A single instinct, too powerful to ignore.
… run.
I do what I’m told.
I burst from the confines of my hoodie, through the neck hole, and land front paws-first on the gravel. My hind legs land barely a beat behind them and I take off in a sprint, bounding for the pub with my heart pounding in my ears and the wind rushing through my fur.
29 Penny’s Small Victory
I know we have moments, maybe less. The oversized, overpowered Anomaly stares us down boorishly as Alfie unloads everything he has left in a pyrotechnic tsunami, for all the use it’s doing us. Even with the intense heat of the blast on my face, it’s a sight that chills me to my core.
“Three of you!” Atlas splays one enormous hand in front of his face, protecting it from the fire as if shielding it from the sun, or something equally as mundane. The cracks and lines of his stony face are still twisted in that cruel leer.
“Think about it, Diesel!” he howls in amusement. “Think about what they’re going to give me for three of you!”
I don’t miss the way Alfie’s blue eyes narrow. Dangerously. I know him better than anyone; he’s unhinged, chaotic, a true maniac both inside and out. Once pushed past the point of no return, he’s a complete loose canon. KING News couldn't have found a better Anomaly to hedge their bets on when it comes to goading someone into killing an insensitive celebrity.
“I honestly don’t think we’re worth all that much to them, old boy,” says Rhys, still hovering at my side. “I would certainly look into other investment opportunities at your earliest possible convenience.”
With a roar of effort, Atlas charges at us, barrelling shoulder-first into Alfie and sending him soaring. My friend hits the wall behind the bar, shattering glasses and bottles of liquor, and crumples to the ground out of sight.
Rhys and I scatter in alternate directions. I’m not sure whether it’s some sort of psychic link, or just that damn luck of his. I dart off-kilter with one shoed and one socked foot around piles of debris, vaulting over a table I hear crushed underfoot in my wake not a second later. He’s practically right on top of me. All I can do at this point is run, swerving left and right, avoiding swings from big, brutal fists.
Where the fuck are you, Shields!?
My feet pound the carpet. The muscles in my arms and legs pump and flex in ways they never coul
d when I was a young teen, a lazy ball of blankets and bags of crisps on my couch, with no idea a keen sense of health and fitness would one day mean the difference quite literally between life and death. Sometimes, it simply comes down to pure stamina.
“Come on, girlie!” I hear him bellow, and I grit my teeth and push to put another meter or two between us. “I thought you kids wanted a fight!”
If this were a slasher movie, I would trip over my own damn vagina and fall flat on my face. If it were a science fiction thriller, a future version of myself would arrive from this time tomorrow to stop an horrific chain of events from being set into motion. If it were a video game, at least once he pummels my face into oblivion I could reset from the last save point and give it another shot, perhaps with a different strategy this time, or a different cache of items equipped.
But this is none of those things. This is life, and life seems to follow its own sequence of events. Events which could be perceived as cruel over the past few years for those of us not born in a way society wants to consider ‘normal’, or perceived as providing us with the gift of preparedness.
“Gotcha!”
A fist grabs the back of my shirt and I yelp, immediately applying the breaks and whipping around to face my attacker head-on. I growl, plunging the baseball bat-turned-sword into his stomach.
Or attempting to, anyway. The point of the blade bounces ineffectively off of his skin again, and before I can re-swing, he’s snatched it from my hand and flung it across the pub.
Sometimes, no amount of preparedness is enough to brace us for something we're about to witness. It’s why, Duncan always taught me, it’s always so important to survive first, and ask questions later, once you’re safe enough to do so.
I have to admit, it’s a good philosophy. When often ordinary-appearing folk can disappear into thin air, remould the earth beneath their feet, even control what their peers are thinking and feeling, nothing can be taken for granted, and nothing can be presumed ‘too unrealistic to be real’. The world simply doesn't work that way anymore.
A sharp yipping noise causes us to both turn our heads at the same time, regardless of our predicament, and stare at the entryway. In a flurry of brilliant orange and white fur, a tiny red fox bolts over the threshold, bounding between tables and chairs and screeching to a halt not three feet in front of us.
It stares up at us and blinks. Something about its gaze seems familiar. It’s like as it’s staring at me, it knows who I am.
Then, with a sharp growl, it pounces for Atlas. It claws its way up his chest, over his face, and around his back. While I doubt it hurts him all that much, it can’t be all that pleasant and I’m willing to bet it’s one of the most annoying things he’s ever experienced. It provides me with enough of a distraction to tear the collar of my shirt loose from the rest of the garment, and free myself.
Thank you, random adorable fuzzy creature. I’ll get my application to be a Disney Princess in as soon as I’m done not getting my arse kicked from here back to Manchester…
I leapfrog up onto the pool table. Atlas seizes it in both hands and wrenches back toward himself in a hard, jerking motion. I stumble, lose my balance, and dive onto the small dance floor area the other side of the table.
My heart bounces up and squeezes itself into my throat as my hands register firm rubber beneath them instead of carpet. My skin senses the particles, familiar beneath them as a material I’m used to manipulating, and I strain my neck to glare up at my oncoming assailant. Even sprawled supine on the dance floor, with him all the way up there and me all the way down here, I suddenly feel strong. In my element. Predatory, almost.
Bring it, mate. You’ll get yours.
“Heh, if you want, I can call the DJ back in here,” he says, looming over me. “We can have a little dance, maybe chat about some of the things your mate’s told me about you…”
“I don’t dance in strange old pubs with strange old Anomalies,” I retort, letting my lips curl into an almost charming smile. “Had a bad instance with a rather bitey fellow last Hallowe’en. Learned my lesson.”
“Well, it’s a good thing the Sovereignty abolished all that ridiculous consent malarkey then, ain’t it?”
The instant his gargantuan boots touch that hard rubber flooring, bringing him thundering toward me, I let the warm shockwaves I’ve been building up in my chest flow down the muscles of my arms into it. Without the texture of the thick carpet in my way, it’s easier to transmute the ground beneath. The surface ripples visibly, ebbing and flowing from my fingers to his feet. It crests around him and in a split second he’s gone, vanishing into it as it opens up beneath him like a sinkhole and devours him up to the knees.
“What the—!”
Atlas struggles, the rubber and concrete thick and gooey like tar or molasses. I grin at him, despite the exhaustion throbbing in my temples. It’s a sight worth taking the time to smirk at.
I clench my jaw and press my hands into the rubber beside me again, where it’s still nice and solid. My body and brain may be tiring, but I don’t want to risk the bloody great pain in my arse dragging himself out of there when this could be our best shot at dealing with him, and quickly and cleanly to boot.
The effort it requires to re-seal the floor is immense. My eyes vignette at the edges, and darkness threatens to claim me, but I wrench myself back into the present. The haze lifts from my vision in time for me to see the mask of confused horror Atlas’ face contorts into as the ground solidifies around him, turning to solid steel, trapping him within it.
“You’ll have to forgive me for my rudeness, if you don't fully consent to staying put for a bit,” I say, my chest heaving and falling with each pant of breath. “But I have one or two matters I need to address with my brigade before they ring last call at the bar.”
Atlas snarls at me in rage, and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. My body relaxes for just a second or two before I’m back on my feet, hauling myself upright.
“Terrorist cunt!” he growls at me, and a yap at my feet cuts short my two-finger-salute response. The little red fox is perched beside me, its attention focused on Atlas. Apparently, it didn't appreciate the git’s crude language anymore than I did.
“Don’t make me seal your mouth shut too,” I comment casually, despite knowing full well I can’t transmute human flesh like that. I chuckle tiredly and glance up, looking around for either of my male cohorts.
“Fat lot of use you two were.”
Rhys is perched up on the bar top, one leg crossed effeminately over the other, a bottle of J²O cracked open and chilling in one hand. “I assist you purely with my presence, darling,” he says smoothly, his lips curled in the smirk I already expect from him by now. “And quite honestly, it looked like you had it all handled from where I was sitting. Wouldn’t it make me a bad gentleman—nae, a bad feminist—if I were to mansplain all over your battle?”
I roll my eyes. “Still, would it kill you to lift a finger? Really?” I’m so exhausted I can barely hold myself upright. I check on a struggling Atlas one last time, then glance down at the fox, who’s sniffing itself all over and poking its muzzle into its fur. It pauses, and snaps its head up to look at me.
Staring into its eyes, those familiar bright eyes, the realization finally hits.
Oh my god. No bloody way—
“Ugh, fuck my arsehole…” Alfie is dragging himself out from behind the bar, his own Magickal exhaustion apparent from the weary way in which he’s stumbling about. He’s bleeding from multiple wounds, though likely small ones from the amount of claret I can see on him. It isn’t enough to concern me; not for a nut as tough as Alfie.
Rhys doesn’t know him as well as I do yet, and the gentleman in him extends a hand to steady the younger Anomaly. “Easy there, old boy, watch your step. A few lacerations may be just a drop in the bucket for a well-seasoned street veteran such as yourself, but blood loss and Magickal exhaustion are never the closest of chums on the best of days.�
�
Once Rhys seems confident Alfie is upright, he gives him a pat on the shoulder, which only seems to confuse my good friend more. “Now, I don’t want to give you any stick for how you live your life, but from one free-spirited fellow to another, it’s very important you learn to choose your friends carefully.”
Alfie stares at him for a few moments, then turns to look at me. “You all right?”
“Yeah, just about. You?”
“I think I’ll make it.” Alfie shoots another look at Rhys, who smiles and raises his bottled juice beverage. “What’s the Earl of the Oxford fucking Comma doing here with you, anyway?”
“It’s a long story,” I say, glancing back at Atlas, who seems to be working himself into exhaustion. “We should knock him out and get off, quick. There’s a news crew outside and they’ve got plans to—”
“Actually, there’s a news crew in here,” comes the baritone announcement from the other side of the pub. We all whip our heads around in unison, but two of us already know what we’re about to see. Michael Kay stands there in his trademark suit and ascot, flanked by two cameras and a sound crew with a boom mic.
“And now that we have our broadcast back under control, and my moment can actually commence…”
The clean-cut silver fox flashes us a grin, then slowly lifts a finger to his lips. At my right, Alfie stumbles forward against the bar, mentally readying himself for a fight he can’t physically undertake. No amount of supernatural luck will keep him on his feet if he tries to emit anymore fire tonight. I know better than he when he’s reached his absolute limit.
The pub is now empty, save for some straggling drunken onlookers and unconscious piles of fabric and flesh. Rhys has hopped down and taken himself out of the shot, which isn’t suspicious behaviour at all for any Anomaly. Past him, behind the bar, I see the only relatively aware-looking person in the entire gaff other than ourselves: a raven-haired woman with floral chest tattoos. She’s closing a door behind her, a worried look all over her face.
Blaze of Chaos Page 18
