by P. S. Power
This time the situation resolved itself peacefully when the Director walked out and spoke to the chief personally. Brian didn't know what he said, but it got them to pull back down the road. The military took their time, but had the situation cleared up about ten hours later. They had control of the prisoners, protesters and cops. It should have been the local police handling it, but that wouldn't work well at all.
Staying on the roof seemed like a good idea, given the car bombing attempt earlier, but nothing else happened. Marcia finally came over, her own natural suspicion allayed by the cooperation of the military it seemed, convincing her they were on their side, for now, and spoke to the special forces commander, a fit man in black and gray digital camo that shook her hand when she approached.
“Marcia Turner... I should have known.” He looked at the rifle she held and pointed. “You take out the rocket? That was good shooting, I saw a live feed of it. Thought your Glory would buy it for sure.” He put his hand out when she got close enough.
“Bill, thought I recognized you, but wasn't sure, one crew cut looks a lot like all the others...” Her face seemed flat, without expression, but the tone she used sounded happy enough. Her white uniform had turned tan somehow and matched the dirt around them. The cut looked identical to Brian, he'd have to ask how she'd done it, because he didn't think she'd changed. Her face was covered with dirt or black make-up, cutting the shine from her white skin.
“The shooter was Brian Yi, Proxy. The guy that took the Jackal killing team?”
The man nodded. “Figures. Didn't know he had military experience. Special forces?”
Marcia laughed.
“No. I don't think he's ever even handled a fifty before today. Have you, Brian?” she asked, not raising her voice at all.
“Yeah, last week I got a couple hours on it,” he replied, making the man, a Major, if he'd heard what others called him correctly, jump.
“Fuck! You been up there the whole time, kid?”
“No, I came down for a bit before you all got in.” He didn't add why, not wanting to insult the guy, who'd only come to help. That would be rude.
The man got it anyway, and clapped Beatdown on the shoulder. “Your doing, no doubt. You always were a paranoid bitch, even before you popped up Infected. Not that I'm going to tell you not to be in the future. The climate right now... I don't know what the orders are going to be next week or next month, understand? This Hooper fiasco... Still, keep an ear to the ground.” He looked up. “You too, kid. We'll talk later.” Oddly the last bit seemed directed toward him for some reason, even if Brian couldn't think of a single reason the military man would want to chat.
When daylight came, Marcia collected him and told him it would probably be safe enough to leave the guard duty to the remaining special forces personnel. Brian felt tired, and wanted to sleep, but for once, rather than being hurt after a fight, he only felt sore from lying on the hard roof tiles for half a day. Over half a day he amended, scraping himself a little more as he slid off the wooden roof.
Whee. It was way easier getting down than up, but he had to be careful with the gear. Dropping a machine gun from the roof had to be against a rule somewhere.
He went and got some food, and drank as much water as he could without getting sick, out of a blue plastic tumbler in Team Three's kitchen. The breakfast cook glared at him for coming in to the kitchen at first, but then relented and made him six waffles and some bacon.
“This shit... You were out there yesterday?” The man, wiry and short, in a white t-shirt that showed he had a yellow Tweety Bird tattooed on his upper right arm with U.S.M.C. underneath it, slid some eggs onto his plate.
Brian nodded and the guy didn't press the issue, going back to his own work instead. Hunger gnawed Brian's stomach, but he carefully ate only half the food. He didn't want to go back to his old eating habits now. After a while the rest of the team came in and sat at the table, even Christian, who he saw about once a week, and Penny, who limped in, on crutches still.
She stared at him, but he didn't bother looking back. It was too exhausting to bother with.
Marcia had walked in too and grabbed some food herself, waffles that she ate plain, reminding him that she didn't really have a sense of taste. That would suck, he thought. Food was about the only thing he enjoyed at all anymore. That and running, a thought that would have made him doubt his sanity three months before.
Chris looked at them, seeming tired, as if she hadn't slept either, which made sense, who could sleep through all that? Not a powerful telepath, the emotions alone would keep her up.
“Marcia, you and Brian need to go and talk to the Director later. He asked for you two personally. Some PR stuff. I don't know what the deal is, but dress nice just in case. Penny... you need to go to medical for a checkup. One o'clock today, Doctor Kern, exam room two.” She stood and left, telling them she'd be in her office if anyone needed her.
Dragging a bit, Brian and Marcia went to change, not knowing what the day would bring, Brian pulled the small handgun Agent Lancaster had given him and slipped it into a small leather holster which he hid under the back of his fatigue shirt.
Technically it was a fatigue “blouse” but he refused to call it that. A guy had to have some pride after all. He slipped a small knife he'd gotten from Jason – to see if it would go with him when he stood in for someone – onto his left hip. That answer had turned out to be no for some reason, probably mass related. His clothes went, but not weapons. It made no sense to him, his shoes always went, and the knife only weighed about the same as a single one of those, but that's what happened. Still, he had the weapons, and decided to keep them close, having at least a little training with them now.
He'd gotten his hair cut short, almost a crew cut, about a week before. He'd found out from the barber that hair cuts were ten bucks apiece, making the man chuckle when he explained he didn't have any money. The whole thing, it turned out, was computerized, luxuries and things like hair cuts came out of his account automatically, so he didn't need cash for it. He could even pull the funds from the bank. The whole fourth floor was nothing but stores and shops. He could even get his nails done if he wanted. The idea had made him happy. Not having his nails done, but that they had their own little mini-mall.
He hadn't been back since, not needing anything in particular, but his hair looked sharp, and hard to pull, that having been what prompted him to get it cut to begin with. He'd ended up fighting an Infected woman that wanted to kill her neighbor for some reason, her strength and speed nearly the same as what Marcia had, but not as hard to damage, thank god. Still a lot tougher than a normal person. Luckily she didn't know how to fight at all, but she'd pulled hair and tried to bite in her rage. So vanity aside, the hair had to go.
Brian waited for Beatdown in the hall, not having a clue where they should go. It turned out to be the press room on two, which didn't bode well in Brian's mind. Marcia had dressed in white again, and done her hair. He stared a bit, then realized what looked different; she had make-up on. Her face looked smooth and creamy, lips pink, a slight blue tinge to her eyelids, eyes outlined in black, making them pop dramatically. He smiled at her.
“You look all cute... got a date or something?” He managed to get his voice to sound happy, but she frowned at him a little.
“Nothing so fun. I don't know what's about to happen, but this doesn't feel right to me. Why pull us? Prime and Glory, Torque even, maybe Level, but us? Team three doesn't do this kind of thing... we aren't high visibility for a reason...”
As they got off the elevator, not three steps into the room, they were rushed by men in suits. At first Brian figured them for reporters, until they closed with him, screaming something and hitting him over and over again. He fought, not knowing what was going on, and managed to break free. Marcia moved to start fighting as he pulled the gun from the holster on his back. Before he could do anything, a brilliant blue beam struck him, followed by a fist from the side as he stood, moment
arily too stunned by the intense feeling of peace, love, and compassion to act. Then he went down under a press of bodies and more blows than he could take, driving him into the darkness within.
Chapter seven
He woke up in the back of a car, not a police car, a regular sedan by the look of the interior, being hit by a man in a suit who screamed at him. It was a little over the top since the man couldn't have been a foot and a half from his ear.
“Think you're tough, cop killer? How's this for tough.” Several blows came, all from the man's right hand. Brian hunched his shoulder up as far as he could, trying to protect his head. It didn't work very well, his hands trapped behind his back. After a half dozen blows the man stopped, his hand obviously hurting from having impacted with Brian's skull so many times. It served him right. Two men sat in the front and he could make out two other cars, one in front, one behind.
“We may not be able to touch your freak buddies, but you fucked up when you killed one of ours, mother fucker. We have a warrant for your arrest, you're going down for murder, bitch!” This came from the brown-suited man with a blond buzz cut in the passenger seat. He seemed grimly happy about the whole situation.
Brian shrugged. At least this time they were trying for proper procedure.
“Just so I know, is the warrant for the “murder” of the terrorist trying to kill a federal agent with a rocket launcher or the one in the suicide bomb car?” This earned him another six or seven punches from the man next to him.
“That don't matter, you won't live to see trial, freak!”
Probably the plan, he realized. They'd come to kill him and take their revenge for their friend being killed, even if he'd been a criminal when it happened. He wondered why the IPB let these men take him? They had to know they weren't going to let him live. Lady Glory betraying him like that... There was going to have to be something done there if he lived through this. Cultural icon or not, she kept trying to get him killed. What he'd done to her he didn't know at all, no one seemed to, but that didn't matter right now. He had to live first.
Brian closed his eyes calmly, which surprised him given everything, the feeling of centered peace, and started talking to himself, to his subconscious mind, asking it to find someone that needed help, someone that maybe he could save? He had to help them, those in need, he needed to find them now, right now.
Brian forced himself to relax and kept talking to himself, occasionally being hit in the side of the head by the man next to him, under a constant barrage of death threats. After ten minutes they hit the city limits, which meant he'd either been out for a long time or they were driving at almost a hundred miles per hour, the town being about thirty miles away from the base. They slowed as they crossed the line and he began to tingle as they did. As the thug next to him started to apply another beating, Brian left.
He flew into the man in front of him, hard, moving about fifty miles per hour, slamming into him with such force that the man dropped the stick he held and both of them flew into the wall behind him. It hurt, but this time Brian had someone else to take the brunt of the force for him. It made a vast difference. Definitely better on flying side of things. The man didn't get up immediately, giving him a chance to grab the stick – an ax handle – and hit the man with it until he didn't move anymore and probably never would. Then he made his way out of the shed he'd found himself in and ran until he started tingling again. It didn't take long, less than fifteen minutes.
He came back on the street, surrounded by police, but without hand cuffs on and not being hit by Lady Glory.
The blueberry of treachery.
Brian ran before they realized he'd come back at all and almost made the nearby tree line before they started chasing him, several of them shooting, trying to make sure he died while trying to “escape”. When he got to the woods he stopped and turned, lying out flat on the ground about fifty feet in. He couldn't outrun them, their weapons and numbers gave them virtual super-strength and their radios and cars super-speed. All he could do then was hide and fight as he could. He found a rock about the size of his fist next to him about three feet away. He picked it up and moved behind a tree.
They moved in fast, recklessly, as if they thought he'd keep running. That didn't make sense at all though, did it? He let the first wave of them pass and then, as one of the next group walked past, he hit the last officer in the head with the rock repeatedly and pulled him down. Then traded clothes with the man as fast as he could, hoping no one else would see him do it. The disguise wasn't perfect. The other man was a little bigger than he was and a little less fit looking, but close enough, he thought. He cuffed the man and hit him in the head again with the rock, dazing him, Another six went onto the side of the man's mouth, breaking it, so he couldn't speak easily. Then just pulled his undershirt, one that said Team Three, off and put it over the man's head. He walked the man back to the cars, hitting him occasionally to keep him too dazed to call out, yelling when he approached, about twenty feet away.
“Got him!” He barked. “Fucker hit me! You believe this cop killing piece of shit?” He punched the man down and kicked him, holding the side of his own face as if hurt, which he was, adding a sense of veracity to it all.
As the others moved in, he walked over to one of the cars on the outside of the ring, still with its lights on and motor running. Remembering Doctor Kern and the supply closet, he didn't look around, just climbed in, pretending it was natural. He made himself pull out slowly, after putting his seat belt on, as if he was supposed to be doing it and drove off, back toward the base. It took him a minute to find the switch, near his head on the right side, and flip it away from him, turning off the lights. The car smelled of artificial cleaner, pine he thought, and the seat felt well worn.
Once on the road he hoped led back toward the base, he hit the gas and sped up. It would be the obvious place for him to go, but he really didn't have a lot of options. For one thing, Brian didn't know the area well enough to go anywhere else. He needed to disappear, obviously, but with killers directly on his trail, he needed some kind of support to make that happen.
First, he needed to know if Lady Glory had been acting alone or if she'd been working with someone else. If this was a conspiracy... Then he didn't stand much of a chance at all. He hoped that once they knew that the police had planned to kill him someone at the base would help, otherwise, well... he knew where the guns were. He'd kill Lady Glory and then go down fighting when the cops came. He didn't really want to hurt her, even if she'd betrayed him, but he couldn't fight and have her hitting him all the time either.
The police didn't seem to figure out he'd driven off for some time, even after they found out that one of their own people had been cuffed and delivered to them most likely. At least one corrupt a-hole had seemed to recognize the officer on the ground as the car pulled away... They weren't, he realized, very bright people.
He knew they had a cap on intelligence for the police, around a hundred and fifteen most places, but that meant most of them should have at least average intelligence. They didn't take morons on purpose, right? So the real average probably ended up being about ninety-five to a hundred and five. Whatever, it worked for him. He got his speed up to one-twenty and held it there, the car driving beautifully the whole time.
Brian had to slow down to make the turn onto the base, but found it, which had worried him. It wasn't marked with more than a normal street sign and he'd never learned the name, having never come this far toward town before. Half an hour later he drove up to the gate, where the guards held weapons on him.
Great, now they put weapons on the police.
Stepping out of the car he put his hands up.
“Hi, guys. If you're planning on taking me prisoner for the police... well, don't. I'd find that inconvenient.” His voice sounded dead to him, luckily one of the guards recognized him.
“Proxy!”
They let him in and hid the car for him. The sad thing, Brian realized, was that while
he could justify the initial killing – the guy had a rocket launcher and was about to kill someone with it, maybe several people – and even the escape, since the police really had planned to kill him, were beating him, and flat out told him he was never going to live for a trial, which he believed whole heartedly, he really stole the cop car. It made his escape easier, but could he justify it as needed in order to save his life? He laughed. It wouldn't make a difference he knew, the police wouldn't let this go. Brian had to be ready to fight, and die, now.
He wanted to get the police uniform off, but needed something to change in to. In the lobby not ten feet in the door, the Director rushed up to him. Looking... really pissed.
“Why did you escape?” He barked, it was so angry Brian had to fight a strong urge to hit the man. Could he really be that stupid?
“Because they were beating me and planned to kill me? Why did you turn me over to them, knowing that I wouldn't live to see midnight if you did, mother fucker? You had to know that when they took me. When you all set me up, again. Their charges can't hold up in court, they obviously didn't plan on a trial, moron.” His voice held anger, but came out soft. Dark and raspy.
“They... what?” He looked at the swollen left side of his face. “They... had a warrant for murder, the lawyers said we needed to let them serve it... It's the only kind of warrant they can serve here...”
“Right, so now I'm screwed and they're coming for me. I need weapons and transportation. I'm taking them from here. If you try to stop me... then we're going to have a problem.”
He pushed passed the man and got in the elevator. Brian didn't have a lot of time, he needed gear and clothes, a car or something, and some kind of plan. He didn't have a clue what to do. How the hell did this get so fucked up, he wondered? Oh, right. The police were involved. It was always a bad policy to give guns to mental midgets with attitudes. Was he the only person in the world that could see that?
