Part One
Five kids had disappeared from the WestEnd over the last week. It wasn't so high a number, maybe. Not for the district that had more violent crimes, per capita, than the entire rest of the city combined. The Guard and SPI were still looking for the 'WestEnd Killer'; there were routine gang wars more violent than a day in Khe Sanh; and the events of a certain shadow and walking-corpse filled night not so very long ago had been enough to make hardened warriors quail and sob. Death was a way of life, on these streets.
But still, even in the WestEnd, there was little tolerance for those monsters - human and not - who preyed on children. Which was why, when a pack of Makos saw a little boy get dragged, screaming, into a storm drain, they contacted their most hated nemesis. Broke the unwritten code among the criminal underworld. They went to the Guard.
Not immediately, of course. No, first they tried going after the kid themselves. Six rough-and-tough street knights, thug born, gangbanger raised, went down the sewers of the WestEnd. One - well, most of one - came back out, shaking and bleeding.
So they went to the Watch. The lieutenant at the WestEnd said the sewers were Public Works' problem, and kicked it over there. Public Works chipped in a map of the sewers that was at least a century out of date and kicked it back to the Watch. The lieutenant asked for volunteers.
You'd think I have enough on my plate already, Paladin thought ruefully, checking his pistols. Seven in the magazine and one in the chamber, Federal Hydra-Shoks guaranteed to put a gruesome hole in any tissue they hit. They were less effective against armour, which was why he had additional magazines of teflon-coated AP and standard ball rounds tucked away in the harness loosely strapped over his coat. The right tool for the right job. Like his swords and fighting knives, he'd had the bullets thrice-blessed. Charms had been placed on the guns to ensure they'd shoot true. They should be effective, even on targets that sneered at mortal weapons - like the surviving Mako indicated this one had.
He was going in alone, though - nobody else had been brave, or foolhardy, enough to volunteer. Not even after he'd raised his hand. He'd picked up a reputation for being where the fire was hottest, after all, and that had the inevitable result of getting the people around him burned. Usually, he preferred to work alone - it gave him more freedom to move when he didn't have to worry about protecting anyone else when the feces hit the fan. And they almost always did.
This, though, this made him nervous. Rumour - never the most reliable resource, but the only one he had in this case - had a lot to say about the city underside. There were miles of tunnels under the city, everything from sewer piping and subway tunnels (from back in the day when the city had a working Metro) to ancient ruins that had been built over and forgotten as the city grew larger. There were demons caged beneath the city, they said, much like they'd wanted to cage Renna the Betrayer - wrapped up in unbreakable chains and bound in spell-circles, the secret prisons bricked over and left. There were dark things, lurking in the endless night.
About the only thing that could reliably expected, really, were rats, darkness, and a foul smell that was slowly choking the Public Works workers as they laboriously lifted the steel manhole cover free of the cobbles. Paladin took a look around the narrow alley and had to laugh. How amusing to think that this dead-end might be his last sight of the surface world. Bags of trash, plastic and burlap both, heaped up against the building walls. The graffiti splashed board fence that tried gamely to keep the alley from being used as a shortcut between two busy thoroughfares. The clotheslines strung between the buildings like the web of some demented spider, festooned with clothes like festive streamers. And, of course, the manhole; a gaping black orifice expelling the fetid breath of Hell itself.
"You're taking this awfully calmly," Guard-Sergeant Remington Abigail Lee said in her rough, bulldog voice. Remmie - woe to the person who called her Abigail, or worse, 'Abby' - was a huge, gruff, bear of a woman, perfectly capable of holding her own - and then some - in any bar brawl or riot. The Guard was a family career for the Lees, and Remmie had brought pride to the tradition. But even she drew the line at plunging into the dank, black underbelly of the city.
Paladin shrugged, glad she couldn't read the morbid poetry of his thoughts. "I've seen worse," he said glibly. It even had the luxury of being true. "Smelled worse, too, come to that."
Remmie wrinkled her nose. "Remind me never to take a slash at your place, then," she said. She was holding the Geordie lamp the Guard had reluctantly issued Paladin when he'd volunteered. He didn't really want it, but the nature of the WestEnd made electric lanterns, flashlights, and even chemical glowsticks unreliable. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in the dark, deep below the city streets.
"You sure about this?"Remmie asked, stepping close and lowering her voice. "Nobody's going to think you a coward if you change your mind, you know. There's some jobs they don't pay us enough for."
Paladin gave her a long, measuring look, and answered just as quietly. "This isn't about the money, Rem. It never was." And then, louder. "So, what do you think about the new duds? Am I still drop dead sex-ay?" He was decked out in protective coveralls, thigh high rubber wader boots, latex gloves and shielding goggles. As Remmie watched, trying not to laugh at his ridiculous question, he pulled an air filter over his mouth, adding to his outrageous appearance. He still wore his long, black coat, trusting to its many enchantments to keep it safe and clean.
"Oh, yeah," she snickered. "You're pretty damn 'sex-ay' all right - for a crazy person." He looked at her and held out one hand menacingly.
"Remmie," He intoned, voice muffled and distorted by the air filter. "I am your father."
She snorted rudely. "I'd like to see a skinny twig like you be my father," she said with a smothered laugh. "You come along home when you get out of that hole and get cleaned up, though. We'll see if we can put some meat on those bones."
"Thanks," he said ruefully, stepping over to the manhole. "But I doubt I'll be in the mood to eat anything for a while, after this excursion." He saluted her jauntily and dropped into the manhole, catching the ladder at the last possible second and lowering himself gently into the darkness.
Remmie carefully lowered the Geordie lantern on its line down after him. "Godspeed, Guardsman," she said softly. Even though she knew that he'd been through worse - or at least, claimed to have been through worse - she couldn't help but worry that this was going to be the last time she saw the pale young man in his long black coat.
~End Part One~
Five kids had disappeared from the WestEnd over the last week. It wasn't so high a number, maybe. Not for the district that had more violent crimes, per capita, than the entire rest of the city combined. The Guard and SPI were still looking for the 'WestEnd Killer'; there were routine gang wars more violent than a day in Khe Sanh; and the events of a certain shadow and walking-corpse filled night not so very long ago had been enough to make hardened warriors quail and sob. Death was a way of life, on these streets.
But still, even in the WestEnd, there was little tolerance for those monsters - human and not - who preyed on children. Which was why, when a pack of Makos saw a little boy get dragged, screaming, into a storm drain, they contacted their most hated nemesis. Broke the unwritten code among the criminal underworld. They went to the Guard.
Not immediately, of course. No, first they tried going after the kid themselves. Six rough-and-tough street knights, thug born, gangbanger raised, went down the sewers of the WestEnd. One - well, most of one - came back out, shaking and bleeding.
So they went to the Watch. The lieutenant at the WestEnd said the sewers were Public Works' problem, and kicked it over there. Public Works chipped in a map of the sewers that was at least a century out of date and kicked it back to the Watch. The lieutenant asked for volunteers.
You'd think I have enough on my plate already, Paladin thought ruefully, checking his pistols. Seven in the magazine and one in the chamber, Federal Hydra-Shoks guaranteed to put a gruesome hole in any tissue they hit. They were less effective against armour, which was why he had additional magazines of teflon-coated AP and standard ball rounds tucked away in the harness loosely strapped over his coat. The right tool for the right job. Like his swords and fighting knives, he'd had the bullets thrice-blessed. Charms had been placed on the guns to ensure they'd shoot true. They should be effective, even on targets that sneered at mortal weapons - like the surviving Mako indicated this one had.
He was going in alone, though - nobody else had been brave, or foolhardy, enough to volunteer. Not even after he'd raised his hand. He'd picked up a reputation for being where the fire was hottest, after all, and that had the inevitable result of getting the people around him burned. Usually, he preferred to work alone - it gave him more freedom to move when he didn't have to worry about protecting anyone else when the feces hit the fan. And they almost always did.
This, though, this made him nervous. Rumour - never the most reliable resource, but the only one he had in this case - had a lot to say about the city underside. There were miles of tunnels under the city, everything from sewer piping and subway tunnels (from back in the day when the city had a working Metro) to ancient ruins that had been built over and forgotten as the city grew larger. There were demons caged beneath the city, they said, much like they'd wanted to cage Renna the Betrayer - wrapped up in unbreakable chains and bound in spell-circles, the secret prisons bricked over and left. There were dark things, lurking in the endless night.
About the only thing that could reliably expected, really, were rats, darkness, and a foul smell that was slowly choking the Public Works workers as they laboriously lifted the steel manhole cover free of the cobbles. Paladin took a look around the narrow alley and had to laugh. How amusing to think that this dead-end might be his last sight of the surface world. Bags of trash, plastic and burlap both, heaped up against the building walls. The graffiti splashed board fence that tried gamely to keep the alley from being used as a shortcut between two busy thoroughfares. The clotheslines strung between the buildings like the web of some demented spider, festooned with clothes like festive streamers. And, of course, the manhole; a gaping black orifice expelling the fetid breath of Hell itself.
"You're taking this awfully calmly," Guard-Sergeant Remington Abigail Lee said in her rough, bulldog voice. Remmie - woe to the person who called her Abigail, or worse, 'Abby' - was a huge, gruff, bear of a woman, perfectly capable of holding her own - and then some - in any bar brawl or riot. The Guard was a family career for the Lees, and Remmie had brought pride to the tradition. But even she drew the line at plunging into the dank, black underbelly of the city.
Paladin shrugged, glad she couldn't read the morbid poetry of his thoughts. "I've seen worse," he said glibly. It even had the luxury of being true. "Smelled worse, too, come to that."
Remmie wrinkled her nose. "Remind me never to take a slash at your place, then," she said. She was holding the Geordie lamp the Guard had reluctantly issued Paladin when he'd volunteered. He didn't really want it, but the nature of the WestEnd made electric lanterns, flashlights, and even chemical glowsticks unreliable. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in the dark, deep below the city streets.
"You sure about this?"Remmie asked, stepping close and lowering her voice. "Nobody's going to think you a coward if you change your mind, you know. There's some jobs they don't pay us enough for."
Paladin gave her a long, measuring look, and answered just as quietly. "This isn't about the money, Rem. It never was." And then, louder. "So, what do you think about the new duds? Am I still drop dead sex-ay?" He was decked out in protective coveralls, thigh high rubber wader boots, latex gloves and shielding goggles. As Remmie watched, trying not to laugh at his ridiculous question, he pulled an air filter over his mouth, adding to his outrageous appearance. He still wore his long, black coat, trusting to its many enchantments to keep it safe and clean.
"Oh, yeah," she snickered. "You're pretty damn 'sex-ay' all right - for a crazy person." He looked at her and held out one hand menacingly.
"Remmie," He intoned, voice muffled and distorted by the air filter. "I am your father."
She snorted rudely. "I'd like to see a skinny twig like you be my father," she said with a smothered laugh. "You come along home when you get out of that hole and get cleaned up, though. We'll see if we can put some meat on those bones."
"Thanks," he said ruefully, stepping over to the manhole. "But I doubt I'll be in the mood to eat anything for a while, after this excursion." He saluted her jauntily and dropped into the manhole, catching the ladder at the last possible second and lowering himself gently into the darkness.
Remmie carefully lowered the Geordie lantern on its line down after him. "Godspeed, Guardsman," she said softly. Even though she knew that he'd been through worse - or at least, claimed to have been through worse - she couldn't help but worry that this was going to be the last time she saw the pale young man in his long black coat.
~End Part One~