UNNECESSARY JUSTICE

. . .

Crime never sleeps.

At least not with its eyes closed.

And never with socks on, that's just weird.

On one particularly restless night, a nefarious slumber party congregates in an abandoned warehouse, a giant rusty shoebox blending into the night. Those windows not blacked out or boarded up are obscured by heavy set figures with guns, silent silhouettes playing chaperon to the inner minglings of this late night soiree.

Inside the warehouse a labyrinth of shelves and boxes wind their way to the center of a cardboard city, looming over the fake streets with tapering darkness. The stars above flicker and die as old bulbs go supernova. Down below, this city's only inhabitants huddle around a large circular table, safe in their Corrugated Castle.

Nothing is said at first. No one wants to be the first to break the silence in these situations as criminals have a natural tendency to either one up or ridicule anyone that comes before them. Not as natural as their tendency to commit crimes of course, but still pretty second nature-y.

Eventually, a man in a khaki trench-coat rises from his seat at the table, touching the tip of his matching fedora in strained respect for his company. His voice is methodically slow and hoarse, like he swallowed a wire brush and decided to just roll with it (health insurance is the real crime).

"Welcome, everyone. Let me be the first to thank you for visiting on such... short notice".

His ellipsis was palpable as every eye at the table glanced towards the burlap sack in the corner of the room, still now after a brief bout of thrashing and kicking when they had arrived. High above, the silhouette guards chuckled faintly. A few of the attendees showed slight signs of approval through nods and grunts; a genuine burlap sack was hard to come by these days, and they appreciated the attention to spectacle. All eyes turned back to the khaki man.

"You all know we've been suffering... cutbacks of late. This economy just can't sustain our... expensive tastes."

The pauses were abundant and poignant, as each rusty knight looked away from the round table to hide the shame in their eyes.

These people were the top crime bosses in the city, yet over the last year they had lost over half of their collective businesses. They used to burn rivals with gasoline-soaked piles of money, but nowadays they had been forced to just beat them with a big bag of coins. Not even a burlap sack, just a shopping bag filled with change. Though not the plastic kind; they may be criminals but they understand the benefits of recycling just like the rest of us.

A nervous cough broke the silence.

It was followed by an even more nervous exclamation that didn't just break the silence, it stomped it into the ground with nasal vehemence.

"Would you just get to the damn point already?! I haven't got all day and the dust in here is playing havoc with my asthma!"

All in attendance suffered from verbal whiplash at this outburst, their necks unable to tear away from the khaki speaker. He continued his onslaught of silence. Another nervous cough punctuated the empty air.

"Seriously, we've all heard this before! At least last time we got to shoot someone. We were even back before Law & Order!"

The loud asthmatic man stood wheezing in place, slowly realising that the chairs in his immediate vicinity had mysteriously retreated from the table. Their occupants had followed accordingly. He remained standing, though his demeanour had progressed from shaky defiance to stoic anticipation. His chest was heaving and his heart rate was almost audible.

With a deep, raspy breath he continued his critique.

"Look, you poor man's Dick Tracy, this is the time for action. We should be out there breaking legs and ruining names. We must have a mole or something, because between the cops and these little upstarts I can barely afford to keep my Hummer running! And I LOVE my Hu-uurk?!"

The confused chicken impression garnered some interest from the braver members of the gathering. One by one they dragged their eyes from Dick Tracy to the asthmatic whiner. The last pair widened with watery disbelief, landing just in time to see the blood first start to trickle, then pour down wheezy's neck.

The sound of 9 chairs scraping in unison echoed across the warehouse, and the wet thump of the suddenly limp dissenter resounded throughout. His head lolled back off his neck right after his eyes rolled up into it. Twitching briefly, he laid to rest on the dusty ground. His inhaler fell out of his white knuckled hand.

"I suppose there are other... opinions?"

The now upright crime lords snapped back to reality, forcing their attention again to the Khaki Man who was nonchalantly using a bright white cloth to wipe his sword. A slick black blade that had apparently been hidden.

"Speak up, why don't you? I promise I won't... bite."

Their gaze followed his hand like a drunk desperately trying to pass a field sobriety test as it slid up & down the shining Katana with methodical determination. No one said anything. No one could; the soft cloth brushing against the sleek steel was the loudest thing they'd ever heard.

A nervous cough.

"I'm glad to see you are all paying... attention. Now, let's get back to business."

With passive obedience, the 9 chairs scraped back to position with their passengers heads hung low. They sat like children now, necks burrowing into their shoulders as they awaited their teachers lesson. No one knew where the khaki man was going with this meeting, but none of them were about to interrupt him again. These men respected spectacle, especially when combined with horrifying authority. So they sat. Patiently. Still and quiet, in fear of their teachers paddle.

The khaki man stood firmly in place at the head of the round table, an impressive feat considering the geometrical impracticality of such an act.

This man commanded respect, demanded obedience, and always got what he wanted. It was obvious from his demeanour; in a room filled with the most violent criminals in the city, he carried on as though strolling the corridors of a pound looking for his next pet. Or victim.


He obscured his eyes by tilting his hat just far enough that all they could see was his mouth as he talked. His teeth, encased in a dangerously smug smile, told the men what they needed to hear.

. . .


In 2015, the internet was hacked.

Not just certain sites or businesses; the entire internet became the playground of a few super-smart ignorant teenagers with nothing better to do than bring the technological revolution to a standstill.

The whole world was faced with complete privacy invasion as a million blogs screamed in violated fury.

International pandemonium spread like a celebrity nip-slip. The government, the police, social services, even those humorous websites with the never ending barrage of cats; they all fell into the hands of a rising number of computer experts who had no idea of what they were doing.

With the infiltration of their government web sites only 4 months after the initial “attack” (there was no other word for what amounted to someone reading through your billion dollar diary), the United States were the first to declare martial law on the information superhighway. No more unmediated web surfing; everything was under scrutiny and control.

They shut down the forums, the social networks, and even the chain mail groups that had been circulating for over 20 years. Millions of people suffered social anxiety issues and ‘Net-Deprivation Syndrome’ as it was later coined, retreating into hermitage as their ability to communicate with the outside world became increasingly censored. Yet their troubles were far from over.


After the success of the first wave of constraints, the American government decided to keep the ball rolling. Small businesses, big businesses, personal emails, private websites; every single aspect of the internet was put under federal control, with nothing sacred and everything monitored. The people of the United States were cut off from the rest of the world, deciding to concentrate on their own security while the other countries handled theirs. America essentially had its own enclosed internet, at the behest of a Commander in Chief faced with a foe she could not comprehend. A closed circuit of information that only the highest authority could regulate.

There were dissenters, of course. You can’t take away that much freedom without upsetting a few people.


The porn addicts were the first to revolt. They took to the streets in jittery droves as they unleashed their pent up aggressions on any authority figure they could find. Riots formed around these crazed & depraved individuals, with more followers joining their cause around every block. The Twitterers, the news junkies, the technology review site curators; most if not all came to arms in an attempt to convince the powers that be that they had made the wrong decision. That this wasn’t for the best. That the people needed their internet.

It was all in vain. The rioters and freedom fighters and dissenters and regular folk caught in the excitement had not yet learned to live without the world wide web. They kept using it to organise, to spread intel and learn methods of resistance. All these things monitored by the very regime they sought to overthrow.

It took less than a month to quell the angry voices. With no way to communicate their angst and frustration, they accepted their fate. As much spit and vinegar as they could muster to rally against the hordes of eFacism, they would still rather some form of internet than none. So it was that in 2016, not even a year after the initial hack had started it all, the American Web was officially announced; cut off from the outside world, but secure in their own. Limited access with many private information rights waived, but all citizens had an official right-to-surf and it was still free.

. . .


The khaki man paused in his historical rhetoric as a quivering arm rose up in front of his face. The smug smile disappeared, replaced by a thin line of unamused lips.

“You... may speak.”

Instinctively the hand-raised man stood to attention. The teachers unseen eyes demanded it.

“Erm, sorry sir but we all ah-a, that is to say, well, we uh... we were there. We know all this.”

Eyes scrunched tight and mouth pursed as tight & to the lower left as could be, the hand-raised man waited for a response. He was only three seats away from faux-Dick Tracy. What else did he have hidden under that trench-coat?

A nervous cough.

“Put your damn... hand down, and I’ll explain myself.”

. . .

The fall of internet privacy saw the fiery rise of eCrime.

Previously the realm of credit card fraud and surprisingly debt laden African royalty, the American Web had become the new gangsters paradise. All businesses and individuals were connected to the New Net whether they liked it or not, and the more tech savvy criminals liked it a lot.

At this point, if you didn’t know how to hack into someones bank account and rob them blind you were no more successful than a pickpocket. The modern criminal could have you mugged, homeless and killed all in one day without ever knowing what you look like. eCommerce had been hijacked by eCrime, and the authorities were overwhelmed.

For every highly trained (and expensive) computer literate police officer, there were at least 20 self taught near-savants ready to ruin that officers life. The typical age for the most common crimes came down to 14 at one point, and the death penalty was even suggested for a 16yr old who had managed to cause numerous suicides through his illegal dealings. The government was unwilling to admit fault on their part, so they poured funding into better security and even more monitoring. Regular citizens faced the consequences of ever increasing numbers of eCriminals.

Eventually the wild west of web crime began to calm down, as the most successful illegal entrepreneurs formed large groups and syndicates similar to the Mafia of the early 20th century. These mobsters controlled their own electronic turf, setting up personal security measures not just against the authorities but also rival gangs. Small time crooks didn’t stand a chance anymore unless they chose a side.

The police and the rest of the government factions couldn’t keep track of the spreading crime wave. Their efforts were strengthened, their numbers increased, and they were able to monitor much of the activity; preventing it was a wholly different matter. The new eCriminals seemed to be one step ahead at all times. A few successes here and there was all the higher-ups could hope for.

It was never an official agreement, but many people speculated that the government just gave up. They could still attend to all the regular crime and dole out appropriate justice, but when it came to the port-modern eCrime they seemed to adopt a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. The police were still around to help when you called, but when it came to keeping all of your personal information private they just shrugged their shoulders and filed the paperwork. They claimed it was to keep everyday citizens safe; they could monitor the wide scale bad behavior and do their best to weed out the petty crimes using the information gathered. The big eCrime-bosses became a necessary evil.

. . .


“And this is where we... come in.”

The round table of misfits had been listening in slack-jawed fear of the khaki speaker, mesmerised into a stupor. At the mention of “we”, some of them almost did. Regaining their posture they sat up to attention, realising something was expected of them.

“Ahem. Sir? Where do we come in, exactly?” A brave soul amongst a band of thieves.

The Dick Tracy look-a-like began to stalk around the table. His shoes sounded no steps as he seemingly glided around the assembled chairs.

“Gentlemen, we come in... armed." His sword had somehow disappeared from sight again as he made his way. None of the assembled eyes could see it anymore.

A nervous cough.

"Our rivals have suffered the same... losses we have in recent months. Considering the ignorant cowardice of the... authorities, I find it hard to believe that they are involved."

His trench coat dusted the floor where he stood as the Khaki man came to a stop a few feet away from the silent burlap sack. Without looking behind him, he gestured widely to the slumped bag with his left arm.

"Which is why I believe... vigilantes are involved."

The table of troublemakers risked some sideways glances between each other at this revelation. It was amazing the self control one had when faced with a choice between chuckling in disbelief and losing one's ability to wear hats.

Arm still aimed at the sack, Dick Tracy continued.

"We have no... moles. Trust me, loyalty is something I pay attention to." The teeth flashed momentarily beneath his shrouding brim.

"We lose our stock and our funds, both physical and... digital, yet our rivals make no gains. We would expect to see a victor rising from our... predicament, yet no such person comes forward."

Now the khaki speaker was walking backwards towards the burlap bag. His feet were barely visible through his shuffling coat curtains.

"Through my own... findings I have come to the conclusion that we have vigilantes in our city. OUR... City." He spat the words through clenched teeth. It was the most emotion they'd seen from him so far, and it was more unnerving than the cooling body on the floor.

He crouched next to the sack now, still not looking directly at it but at his audience instead.

"They know the Net. They listen and watch. We have become... lazy, allowing simple children access to our accounts and plans. They steal our money that we rightfully stole from them, and they get away with it because we are... complacent."

His slow words were met with a flurry of movement as the khaki man picked up the burlap sack by its drawstrings and brought it to the table in one swift move. He placed it unceremoniously in the center of the giant table.

"I have traced these... usurpers back to a few select groups. We need to take back the... Fear. This city used to cower before us as we took what wanted. These vigilantes seek to... upset that balance of power." He was speaking louder now, his forceful nature aimed solely at the sack. The men around the table could feel his gaze trying to burn through the bag on the table. It defied his stare and remained singe-free.


A nervous cough broke the silence yet again. The embittered Dick Tracy continued with his tirade.


"Which is why we are here. I wish to make an... example of these ne'er do wells. They seek to challenge us at our own... game? Then its time they learned the rules."

This time they watched the sword emerge from his trench coat, its midnight steel sucking them in like a black hole of awe. Teeth were unsheathed below his hat brim as the khaki man leveled his blade towards the burlap sack with steady determination, allowing the men a moment to appreciate the grandiosity of such a performance.

For a moment nothing could be heard except the faint hum of a generator far off in the warehouses streets of shelves. A nervous cough was the only addition.

Sword still steady and pointed at the sack, the khaki man's shark-like grin went under the surface. The hat pivoted slowly as it surveyed those in attendance. His unamused lips came back up.


"Wait... who keeps coughing?"

. . .


It was raining hard in the Emerald City, and it was doing so on Stanley Hartwell.

The monochrome gray cityscape was bathed in a sheet of falling mist and little more, as the streets of Seattle were seldom busy this time of night. Save for a few headlights lost in the exploding puddles that erupted off of them, Stanley walked alone.

He kept a consistent pace as sturdy leather boots splashed a determined path towards his destination & sanctuary. Rain bounced off of everything in sight, the concrete giants that surrounded him barely glistening for a second before their stone underbelly came seeping through once more. He hurried past huge opaque windows, star-charts of raindrops shifting sideways as fast as he could walk. Without breaking stride, he turned a corner at a wide four-way junction and stood to attention. This cross in the arteries of the city saw one soggy cardboard box doing the work of three tumbleweeds down the middle of the road.

Under the shelter of a well lit bus stop Stanley waited patiently for the obvious. Fat droplets of rain fell from his folded arms as they tried to hug his shivering body into submission, sodden clothes threatening to prolong the process. Aside from his shaking bones, Stanley was the epitome of a living statue in his cocoon of sterile light. The street in front of him might have blushed had it the necessary prerequisites to do so, as his unwavering stare had been intimately scanning every square inch of visible pavement for 5 minutes. Without moving his head Stanley made a point to survey his surroundings with intricate recall, as was his custom in such situations. You could take the boy out of the neuroses but you couldn't take the neurosis out of the boy.

Stanley Hartwell had been orphaned at the age of 18. It was hard to get any sympathy when you are an official adult in the eyes of the law & your frugal extended family, so he sought comfort from a studio apartment with 2 bunk-beds and 5 roommates. It was not the light-beer, inner city celebrity lifestyle he had been sold as a child, but it was all he needed in life.

His parents had been the last of the Baby Boomers retaliative baby-atomic bomb; an almost over populated America was given a new wave of job hungry little bundles of joy, and they all had a thirst for technology. I.T. degrees were the most sought after of diploma’s in the mid-21st century, and they soon became the requirement for the vast majority of U.S. employment opportunities. His mother & father belonged to a nation of computer Nerds and internet Geeks who became the driving force of the technological revolution, with North America leading the charge.

Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell were simple folk, as Stanley had seen them. They loved him. They fed him. They clothed him, at least until he was 14 and got a job running a fast food Drive-Thru from his bedroom. What few social skills he possessed he presumed had been learned from them, though he often felt guilty for not remembering many of their conversational exchanges.

He knew they had liked things the way they were. Before the cameras on every PC and admins in every chat room.

Stanleys' eyes shot left as soon as the bus came into view, following it like an old typewriter ribbon as the hulking people carrier hurked and jerked its way through the road-slash-lake. It came to a stop with a tumultuous tidal wave, opening its doors directly opposite Stanley. He took two bounding steps into the bus and swiped his Creditz Card through the drivers slot. He spared a quick once-over of the tinted plastic wall in front of him, then took off down the aisle.

The bus drivers bullet proof pod gave a muffled beep as the doors closed behind Stanley, signaling to the 400lb conductor that it was time to wake up from his nap and punch in the Stop/Go log-in key. This process was one of the few non-automated functions in the Emerald City’s fleet of public transportation services, and as he made his way to the middle of the bus Stanley could already hear the faint rolling thunder of the bus drivers snore through the almost-sound proof protective shell.

He sat in one of the many empty plastic cradles on his left. A few of the other uninviting safety seats were occupied by various night denizens. None of them seemed likely to pose a threat. The drain hole in the bottom of his aisle seat caught a rivet on his faded blue jeans as he slid over the hump towards the window. The rivet pulled tight and the jeans jerked him forward, face planting him into the welcoming arms of the wet, dark Saturday night that started to move sideways behind the glass.

The drenched streets of Seattle flew behind Stanleys' head as he studied his reflection in the bus window. He rubbed his forehead inches from the glass, tendrils of wet hair attempting to cover his right eye with tortured style. The stark glare from above the seats and along the walkway gave him full exposure to what had grown into a constant reminder of where he came from.

He had his mothers eyes. Bright, gray pools of listless anxiety. She worked for the city, or state, or something Government-y; he could barely remember her real first name and it had only been 4 years. She was the smiler (a trait he hadn’t picked up) and the cynic, a perfect partner for his stern but hopeful Korean father. Stanley recognised in the mirror his fathers brown hair and strong jawline, but nothing else. Both inside and out; his dad was a lean, tall man who said little whilst doing a lot. Stanley was a thin, slouched post-adolescent who said little whilst thinking a lot. Which he proceeded to do in the uncomfortable bus seat he was settling into. He laid his head back against the perforated cradle, eyes scanning everything.

The day they died, Stanley had been looking for an apartment to rent. His first. They had been at a protest or rally of some sort, far off towards the city center. His father was always meeting and chatting to people from the Web, mostly through work, and he assumed these were the people they had been with. The quiet parent spoke of his job in terse descriptions, so as far as Stanley was ever able to discern he had been a librarian. A very important librarian, apparently, because some serious men tried to get in touch with Stanley not long after the funeral. Luckily, his anti-social tendencies had given rise to a knack for shirking responsibilities. They never found enough of him to touch.

Whatever type of gathering had been intended that day turned into a riot, according to official police statements on the news. Hundreds of citizens began looting businesses and assaulting firemen and policemen alike. When rubber bullets couldn’t quell the angry mob, live fire had been permitted. They said someone from the crowd threw a badly made Molotov Cocktail. That it hit a streetlight and rained down on the crowd. On cars and generators and other flammable things.

Whatever type of gathering had been intended that day burned in a series of deafening explosions, according to unofficial rumours. They said roughly the same thing to Stanley when the authorities informed him over the phone that his parents had perished. He had been traveling on the same bus route he was on now when he got the call, heading towards what would become his current home. He wasn’t given many details; they apparently didn’t need a positive I.D., and according to the records all the necessary bank transfers had been made -minus the handling fees & police labour taxes, of course- so if he could collect their things from storage within the month that’d be great, sorry for your loss, goodbye.

The bus churned up drain-blocking puddles as it slowed to turn a corner and head down to the waterfront. This edge of the city ran alongside the Puget Sound, tendrils of the Pacific seeping in through giant cracks of land. Separating the towering urban stalagmites from a taste of the ocean was the Viaduct Gardens; an unstable elevated double decker highway-turned neglected public green belt. Years of traffic congestion beneath this concrete dog park had forced the once bustling waterfront promenade into a strip of abandoned docks and warehouses. These days the only attention the Viaduct Gardens received was from the homeless who inhabited it and the buildings that ran uncomfortably close alongside it.

Stanley leaned forward and stared intently out the windows on the other side of the bus as it turned again, the waves of the Sound cresting to the left of the humming transporter. His stop was coming up soon and he needed to make sure there was a clear path to his so-called Home. Four years in this neighbourhood had taught him a lot about preventing confrontations with the less savoury characters of city life. A few armed muggings and a beat down or three had molded Stanley into an effective criminal radar, avoiding such people that might Ping his senses.

The bus continued its journey along the waterfront with the creaking viaduct as its only companion on the stretch of gently cresting road. Stanley was scanning his side of the road now as they approached his destination. Six blocks ahead he could see a huddled gathering close to his apartment entrance. Possibly homeless. Possibly lawless. He wasn’t going to take a chance.

As his stop drew closer he instinctively reached inside his puffy blue jacket for his phone. He found nothing. Almost immediately the top of his left forearm started vibrating, and with a barely perceptible roll of his eyes he pulled up his dripping sleeve to cancel the Bus Stop Request that flashed on the display. He could remember to beat the automated Destination Confirmation almost to the second, but the recent upgrade from detached to attached cell phones was still hard for Stanley to retain. The trend had caught on well over a year ago but he’d only just made the switch. His quiet stubbornness met its match, however, against the proprietary nature of his service provider, which had deemed wrist mounted “Uber-Phones” to be the new standard.

With his exit from the bus delayed momentarily, Stanley took a second to collect his thoughts and prepare for Plan B;

    Entrance to house: blocked.
Conditions: damp and ill lit.
     Options:  attempt frontal entry
          attempt rear entry through alleys
        continue on bus route full circle


The thought of riding this electric tank halfway around the city did not appeal to him as much as risking the boring alleyways 4 blocks away from his front door. He pulled up his sleeve again and tapped the city transit icon on his uber-phones' display, teardrop rainbows forming where water had smeared off his jacket. He hit Next Stop and stood up, steadying himself with the bar overhead & the textured metal walkway beneath him as he swayed down the aisle to the front of the bus.

The bus had received his stop request and was obediently slowing down underneath the gardens, a few flickering streetlights illuminating the wall-less cavern for short bursts at a time. Stanley could hear the driver snort to attention as he swiped his Creditz Card on the way out of the bus, the baritone beep yelling at him to leave through the opened doors. The noise was also a reminder that his journey and destination had been recorded and filed away thanks to the multifaceted Creditz Cards that were used for almost every transaction imaginable.

Stanley stood motionless outside the bus doors after they closed. Between the wind and the rain and the indefinite light, he had barely gotten a cursory glance at his surroundings. The Viaduct Gardens above shadowed everything within his limited sight, but above the ancient roadway loomed the weather-puncturing buildings of the city's edge.Water poured from their windowsills and gutters peppered the street in vertical river rapids, scattered cars parked nearby bearing the brunt of the falling streams. The dark alleyways that carved into the metropolis echoed with the sounds of a city under siege. As a crescendo of overturned trash cans came to a stop, Stanley noticed the collection of night dwellers that had appeared from the alleys.

His radar had failed him. No doubt the typical Washington weather was disrupting his usually keen senses, and he pondered how one could have overlooked such skulking rain walkers. He knew they frequented the dark alleys of the city, but not usually this close to the water; too many open areas, a marginally steady reel of witnesses rolling by on buses. His late night entourage must have chosen the sounds of the sea over the sky falling.

So much for Plan B. Time for Plan C.

They formed a badly drawn semi circle in front of him as he collected his thoughts once more. Their bodies began to hunch as they shimmied closer in the cold rain. Plan C was experimental and had never actually been tested, but Stanley was more than willing to give it a shot. He quickly spread his feet shoulder width apart in a stance that was somewhere between fight and flight. It was closer to fright.

He yanked his left arm up with his fist pointed down, and aimed his wrist at each of the potential assailants one at a time from left to right, awkwardly switching between them with hesitant jerks. A frantic red dot appeared momentarily on the chest of every one he pointed at. His other hand came down on the swaying wrist to steady it, and leveled his arm at his would-be assailants.

“I’m not afraid to shoot!!”

His voice was high pitched and quavering, but there was a commanding tone that stopped the half circle from advancing for a moment. Another bout of dot waving zipped between them.

“It’s loaded! One more step and I’ll fry you where you stand!!” Now Stanley was just waving his arm back and forth between the individuals on the edges of his peripheral vision.

The lowered figure in the middle of the group stood up straight at this last threat. A brief second passed as two people in the rain stared blindly at each other. The evenings conditions obscured their facial features, hiding any possible humanity that could have changed anyone's convictions. The two crooks either side of him took a step forward.

“Shit!”

Stanley slid his sleeve up yet again at the same time as he pressed his face to the front of his forearm. In one deft move he had uncovered his wrist phone and fingered a complicated pattern on the screen, pressing eyebrows to cheekbones as hard as he could.

On their second step forward the street gang was blinded by the purest white light they could imagine. Shadows raced up the sides of walls and every single rain drop was seen for a split second as Stanleys phone trapped the semi circle of thugs in a box of brilliance. Eyes still closed, he backed away from the bad scene, shadows stretching and pulling as he went.

Seconds later the light went out. The pink glow in front of his eyelids was gone. The phone battery had already died; 4100 lumens worth of energy would probably do that.

He opened his eyes and could make out the stumbling outlines of the probably disgruntled crowd assembled in front of him. Plan C may have been a bluff, but it had worked!


Sort of.


As they stood up rubbing eye sockets to knuckles, Stanley straightened up and mumbled quietly to no one in particular.


“Plan D it is, then.”

He broke into a sprint and headed past his grasping attackers into the alleyways behind them. They fumbled and fell as they turned around to give chase, their quarry already taking confusing turns through the alleys in a desperate bid for freedom. Hurried footsteps quickly melted into the myriad of echoes that came from these dark veins of a city, as the nearby waves lapped against the warehouses that stood like sentry on the shore.

At least this time he'd blinded his opposition instead of himself. Plan C was getting better.

Plan D was simpler, though.

Stanley hurtled further away from home.


. . .



Shattering rain blew around the waterfront warehouse in heavy gusts as the waves of the Puget Sound crashed underneath the pier. The inhabitants of the warehouse were ignorant of these noisy occurrences, however; this battered, boring building was misleadingly sound proof. Thick walls and plenty of obstructing leftovers from the storage needs of yesteryear were all that this overlooked landmark needed to supply the perfect meeting place for the illegally inclined.

The rain beat against unwavering windows high up towards the barely slanted roof of the building. Behind them dusty air hardly moved, falling the short distance to the gangway that wound through the rafters. The metal walkway stretched far into the darkness, and the silhouette eclipsing the window looked alone save for the muffled weather outside.

It was an easy gig. He’d been hired last minute via email; contract job, one night, time and a half, shoot to kill. Down below, the maze of shelved boxes spread out from the middle of the well lit warehouse where the meeting he’d been employed to guard was well under way. The creepy guy in the trench-coat had met him at the door, weird smile directing him to the rafters of the warehouse.

The armed henchman shifted the weight of his rifle to the other shoulder as he kept a sharp eye on the downpour outside. He had seen the other hired goons as he'd made his way to the assigned position, but they were invisible to him now. He thought he’d heard one coughing a few times off in the darkness and that was it.

There’d been some sort of a scuffle with the trench-coat guys men not long ago. They seemed to have it handled, and he could barely make out their faces from this vantage point anyway. He was just glad the burlap sack had stopped moving. Getting it to looked like it had been a tall order. Ha Ha. So aside from the musty air and the occasional howl of wind, it was a peacefully violence free evening.

He was antsy. There’d been a depressing lack of beating people up in his line of work recently, and the few deaths he’d been a part of had been lackluster in their presentation. Business definitely wasn’t booming though, so he started to figure that he should be grateful for what work he could get. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and his muscles slowly tensed and untensed as he readied himself for anything the night might throw at him.

“I’m genuinely fairly sorry about this.”

There was a nervous cough. The silhouette guard in the window crumpled to the floor unceremoniously, his head twisted farther to the right than his species normally allowed. A gray figure stood in his place. This neutral character blended into the backdrop of the warehouse attic without moving an inch, patiently waiting. A gray boot was placed on the side of the dead henchmans chest. After a moments pause in the silence of the thick air, a question floated up from the gathering below.

“... who keeps coughing?”

The gray boot pushed forcefully, and the horizontal thug slid off the metal gangway into the unseen depths of the warehouse floor. Before his body hit the bottom the gray mirage leapt over the walkways hand rail towards the center of the giant room, aiming for the open space around the table covered in light. In mid flight and with an imperceptible flourish, the flying gray figure produced a small black grappling hook that found its way to a beam directly above the round table. The trajectory of the single colour costume brought it sliding vertically from the nylon rope that hung from the grappling hook 50ft above the circular congregation, a blur speeding towards the assembled criminals feet first.

The sound of the heavy set watchman hitting the ground off in the recesses of the warehouse startled all in attendance. Not in the cheek slapping, high pitched screaming kind of way; these lords of the underworld were students of the draw-guns-and-fire-blind school of surprise. Moments after they’d risen from their seats and shot wildly into the shadows of the stacked streets, the hurtling gray figure from the rafters came crashing down through the center of the round table.

With guns still aimed at the nothingness beyond, the crime lords could make out a man wearing an all gray outfit in the center of their splintered mess. As the shaded stranger stood up & brushed off debris from his landing, they all turned to aim their bullets at this more tangible target. Time slowed for a moment as everyone thought about their next move.

The Dick Tracy impersonator jumped backwards just in time to see the man in the gray uniform take something from his belt and throw it hard at his own feet. The khaki trench-coat was pulled up & over his head as he felt the air pressure change with the sound of escaping gas. Peeking through gaps in the folded material, he risked a glance at a cloud of smoke which had already engulfed the men at the broken table.

Muted shouts. Loud thumps. Wet snaps. The smokey mass in front of the khaki man emitted a melody of painful music as he stood just a few feet away.

The thick cloud began to dissipate, and his fedora tilted down as the man in the trench-coat dragged the black blade from its hidden sheath. He calmly leveled it at the almost transparent smoke. The shark smile was nowhere to be seen, and his unamused lips were pressed white together.

The gray figure was still in the center of the destroyed table when the haze disappeared. He held a frightened crime lord close to his chest, obscuring almost all of his features with a human shield. Bodies littered the surrounding area. Some twitched. Some moaned. The sound of knocking wood came from the shaking legs of his criminal hostage. The smell of ammonia came from what was running down them.

The sword wielding Dick Tracy look-a-like didn’t flinch when the person that caused all this disruption reached up with surprising speed and snapped the neck of his short lived shield. The shaking ceased and the legs gave way beneath the dead weight, leaving the only people still upright to stare at each other through the settling dust.

The gray man raised a gloved fist to his mouth with dramatic emphasis.

He gave a nervous cough, lowering his hand to reveal a wide smile.

"Should I assume that the other men are similarly... incapacitated?" The voice coming from the khaki hat was low and threatening, an inquiring growl. His dark steel was still aimed steadily at the gray intruder.

The costumed man in front of the motionless sword seemed to not notice the question. He proceeded instead to shake off the leftover table dust, looking around his immediate vicinity with passive interest.

He wore varying shades of gray body armour, similar to light-weight riot police garb. Shoulder, knee, and elbow pads protected all the usual knobbly extremities whilst a thin but sturdy looking chest guard formed around an athletic torso. A narrow column of moving plates shielding his spine could be seen as he turned his upper body 180 degrees in both directions, his arms folded in a classic stretch. A snug padded helmet partially obscured his face, a wide band across his forehead leading down his cheek bones and under his chin to frame his face. It resembled the leather protective caps used by Ye Olde Football players of the 1930's, a tuft of brown hair poking defiantly out the top of the head band.

The smiling gray head stopped searching the room when it caught sight of the crumpled burlap sack on the edge of the circle of light. It looked like it had been flung to the side as a result of the grand entrance & the excitement that followed. The scene in the warehouse became a screen capture, nothing moving except for the almost visible breathing from the unconscious and pretending-to-be-unconscious lumps near the table wreckage.

"Is he alive?" The gray man was still smiling. There was no hint of humour in his voice as he stared at the inanimate sack.

The khaki man was smiling too, now.

"I... hadn't noticed." His sword was impossibly steady, arm still holding it perfectly level with his guests eyes.

The gray man slowly turned from the sack to match the shark smile with his own. Their eyes met, presumably; between the fedora and the forehead band it would have been impossible to determine exactly what their shrouded sockets were looking at. The tense scenario playing out was a textbook standoff, neither party willing to give up the bravado.

A loud bang echoed through the warehouse. It was far enough away that its source was unknown and arrived at the standoffs ears from all sides. Neither man showed any interest in its origin. They continued their staring contest.

A pounding of many feet came from the streets of shelves, the sound weaving from one side of the building to the other as they wound their way closer. Both stoic figures remained in place.

As various people came careening around the corner of a stack of boxes with a cardboard clamour, the standoff ended. The man in the khaki trench coat lunged forward in expert fencing form towards the man in the gray costume.

Ten minutes later there was no one left standing in the well lit arena. Those rousing from unconsciousness on the ground looked around as sirens wailed outside. Those who were pretending continued as such. It was looking to be a long night and they wanted as much rest as possible.

. . .

Stanley raced past mosaic brick walls, forgotten gutters high above cascading him with the nights collections. Trash cans and street debris toppled & clattered wetly beside him as his limbs flailed at high speed, the soggy sound of would-be attackers in pursuit echoing behind him. He was practically swimming through this wind swept alleyway, struggling for air as suffocating fear threatened to halt his escape.

His intricate knowledge of the Seattle streets were no match for the gut wrenching panic brought on by the band of thieves behind him. His escape routes were all planned with passivity in mind; he was used to slinking quietly with the shadows, not barreling blindly through the dark. Confusion mixed with adrenaline too readily for Stanley, and now he was running with no destination other than wherever his persistent muggers weren't.

A few more frightened turns and he erupted without warning from the soaking alleyways. The waterfront street lay before him, unseen waves crashing loudly behind the blocky buildings on the other side. Their booming aftermath bounced between Stanley and the Viaduct Gardens above him, his hands clamped to his ears as he ran headlong across the parking lot.

He was back where he'd started! How could this have happened? There were no hiding spots to wait in or corners to slow them down out here. He was back in the open street, a short distance to travel when your daily workout is robbing people on foot. The rain streamed down his face and into his eyes, blinking madly as he flopped across the parking spaces with hands still clasped in useless panic to his ears. He bounded off the sidewalk into the body of water that resembled the city road, kicking up a scared spray as he darted across the street.

There was barely any traffic this late at night, but he could see a large bus bearing down the black-top river towards him. Stanley could also make out a big warehouse in front of him on the other side of the road. A number of cars could be seen in the lot of the warehouse, too clean to be abandoned vehicles. Stanleys brain worked as fast as his keen eyes, adrenaline finally winning out over sheer panic.

He pushed his frozen body faster, barely glancing right as the safety sensors on the city bus sounded a lazy honk. The bus was closer than he thought. His feet were numb, but Stanley forced them forward with flicking momentum. He was almost on the other side of the road, yet the bus was almost on the other side of him. With a ringing in his ears and the biting cold on his arms he closed his eyes and grit his teeth, puffing his chest out as he ran for his life.

The wind & rain picked up and threw him to the sidewalk as the bus stormed by, a moist slap hitting the sidewalk. Stanley pushed himself up onto his elbows, a muddy reflection staring back from the pavement. He couldn't tell if he looked as bedraggled as this murky mirror depicted, but he felt it. Panting, he got to his feet and looked up at the warehouse in front of him. The cars had been parked politely between the faded lines and they looked well kept. As abandoned as this building seemed, someone had to be inside to warrant such a collection of vehicles at its entrance. Still standing in the puddle he had landed in, Stanley turned around to look across the street he'd just cleared in leaps and bounds.

The gang of lurkers did so four lanes away from him. They appeared to be waiting for Stanley to notice them, because as soon as he did they started sprinting across the road towards him. They ignored the common sense practice of looking both ways before crossing a street and just ran, nearby buses refusing to swoop in with flattening solutions. The road behind him underlined his plight as Stanley turned on his heels and headed for the comparative safety of the warehouse. His chest instantly filled with fire as his heart remembered why it had been beating so fast moments before, lungs sucking in as much air as they could use. Crossing the almost empty lot in seconds, he grit his teeth and closed his eyes again as he braced for impact. Arms stretched in front of him, the closest door ran into Stanley with a solid bang.

The door swung inwards with explosive ease as both his hands hit the bar that opened it. He lost his balance and went sprawling onto the dusty floor, mud forming instantly as his sopping wet clothes streaked a landing strip along the ground. Without missing a beat he was up & running again, and he took a split second to look around. The doorway to a world filled with rain fell behind him, splashing footfalls gaining closer in the distance before the closed door silenced them.

There were stacked metal shelves on either side of him, filled with miscellaneous boxes and tarpaulin covered mysteries. They were barely visible in the dim light and he couldn't see the highest shelves climbing towards the dark ceiling of the warehouse. As Stanley sped through this alleyway of a different sort, he could just make out a bright light through the gaps in the shelves coming from what seemed like the center of the building.

He put his head down and ran as hard as he could, feet pounding the floor in time with his heart. The chased abruptly turned a corner as the chasers sounded like they had figured out the complexities of opening a closed door. Stanley slammed into a metal shelf as he turned another corner, unknown articles spilling onto the ground behind him. He winced as he heard shouts behind him trip and fall over his droppings in the aisle, the howl of a many legged beast slipping on the banana peel of chance.

He couldn't keep this up. Years of physical neglect had molded a physique fit for hiding, not running. His skinny frame was being jostled through various obstacles, each angular edge sprouting a new bruise on his tired physique. Stanley had been mugged before but they had been uneventful affairs; a swift kicking, the fetal position, and a well placed dummy wallet were all he’d endured in the past to escape with most of his blood still where it should be. This seemed a little more serious. No doubt his unwanted entourage were upset from all the running and wet weather, and criminals didn’t seem the forgiving type these days. When they caught him...

He pushed the thought away and replaced it with hope instead. He was getting into the swing of these shelves and had actually gained some distance during his pursuers fall. If he could just make it to the light, plead for help from whoever was hanging out here this late at night, maybe this would all end well?

The thought of everything ending well ended badly as Stanley missed a step and tripped over himself. He wasn’t far from the end of this maze of shelves, but when he hit the floor and slid yet again he could hear the persistent muggers turn into the same aisle. He scrambled to his feet with sweat and rain running into his tearful eyes, the soles of his shoes working double time to keep up with his momentum. He stepped on his own hand. The shelf to his right provided some assistance as he pulled himself up and forward, forcing his skinny body to keep running. Another bruise. The army of angry feet were closer now, so much closer. Maybe the people in the light would be quick witted enough to sense his plight and tear his attackers off of his fetal position before they pummeled him too hard. Maybe they would just take his money and be done with it, job well done, lets go get some drinks. Maybe he was invisible.

The end of the shelves were almost behind him when Stanley felt arms around his waist. Had his experiences with affairs of the heart/libido been more extensive, he may have taken a moment to appreciate the reassuring way in which the arms wrapped him fully, or how they hugged him tight like they never wanted to let go. But all these comparisons were lost on poor Stanley. Instead, all he could think of was screaming as he and his heavy companion fell forward, but he knew that seldom helped in this town. At the very end of the shelves on this side of the aisle was a stack of matching boxes. Half running, half falling, he silently aimed what was left of his strength at them, hoping they would conveniently rid him of his bear-hugging passenger.

They tumbled into the tower of cardboard as one mass, rolling and crashing into the open expanse of the middle of the warehouse. They were just on the edge of light yielded by various lamps fastened to the shelves that served as walls around this makeshift room. Dust filled the air with a drifting haze, everything cast in a fuzzy light reminiscent of old soap operas on a television. From his vantage point pressed an inch off the warehouse floor, Stanley couldn’t make out much else.

There was an encouraging lack of beatings. With the immediate threat of pain momentarily subsided, Stanley risked raising his head slightly to get a better view of his surroundings. The weight of the man on his back was worrying, but motionless. Stanley realised why. He must be staring at the same scene Stanley now saw.

At the center of the circle of light was a pile of splintered rubble. Recognisable wooden shapes led Stanley to believe it had been a table in a past life, with a littering of silent & moaning bodies around it suggesting there had been an abrupt end to their card game or whatever it was that had brought them together. In the middle of this broken mess was a gray figure of a man, stoically staring at another man dressed in a khaki outfit reminiscent of a classic detective. This Halloween costume was ruined only by the perfectly still black sword he had leveled at his gray partners head. They appeared to be smiling at each other, though the tension in the air was more stifling than the dust.

Seconds after Stanley and his attacker had hit the ground, the scene in front of them broke into a frenzy of movement. So did the unseen behind them, as the other muggers finally caught up with both Stanley and current events. They too slowed to a standstill to observe the fight unfolding amidst the broken table, slack jawed disbelief replacing their desire for Stanleys valuables. The khaki man swung at the gray figure with surprising speed, a flurry of clothing and metal as his trench-coat flapped wildly around him. With equally admirable speed the gray figure held up both arms in an X-shaped block. The deflection sounded a metallic ringing around the warehouse, subsequently followed by different tones of defense as the khaki man continued to jab and slice at the gray figures parrying forearm guards. Each connected hit began to blend into one another as the onslaught of black steel continued. They were keeping to the light but zig-sagged closer to their audience with every duck and dodge. Though the khaki man couldn't get a cut, it was becoming obvious that the gray figure was on the defensive, barely able meet black steel with gray wrists.

As they came within a few feet of Stanley and his passenger, one of the panting thieves tried to say something. It may have been a vote of encouragement, or maybe he was thinking about mugging one of the fighting men. Whatever his intent, he didn't get very far as the khaki man elegantly pushed his gray opponent into Stanleys group with a powerful swing of his sword. The gray figure had managed to raise both guards up in a boxing stance, but the force sent him bowling into the standing group. The stumbling bunch hit the floor with a chorus of "oof!"; the gray figure was on his feet with an imperceptible flourish almost immediately.

The gray defender darted back into duel with the awaiting Dick Tracy. The fallen gang stuck to the floor rubbing their heads where it was safe, and the one pinning Stanley maintained his awkward position. It dawned on Stanley that the weight on his back was just that; weight, not pressure. With the sideshow in full swing, now was the time to exit stage left. He took a quiet, long breath of encouraging yet incredibly dusty air and rolled the mugger off of him into the nearby shelves.

The weight was gone and there was no immediate pummeling forthcoming, so without looking around Stanley made a break for freedom. He didn't know if his admirers would follow or not, and he didn't care. He had given up on looking for help in this warehouse of violence, and all he wanted now was the relative safety of his overcrowded apartment decorated with loneliness.

It dawned on him after only a few hurried steps that he was sprinting directly towards the center of light filled with fighting.

The two men were locked in combat, literally it seemed. Time slowed to a crawl as Stanley examined the fire to his frying pan; one mans face shrouded in darkness and teeth as he relentlessly pushed a sharp blade towards his opponents neck, the other mans face a contortion of grimacing muscles and sweat as he kept both wrist guards firmly clamped in a protective X against the inching sword.

Stanley craned his neck around in mid dash to see if his entourage was in pursuit, to see if his half baked escape route wasn't a completely wasted effort. What he didn't see was a burlap sack laying directly in his path through the shattered table debris. Foot wedged under folds of solid lump, Stanley fell to the ground in a faint mushroom of sawdust and clattering limbs.

Winded from his landing, he turned over onto his back. He still didn't see the burlap sack, and wondered instead what the hell he'd tripped over.

"No matter what 'appens, stay calm" said a voice filled with gravel by Stanleys ear, "or things will get much worse."

It wasn't an entirely frightening voice. It was just that, being mere inches from the ground in a dangerous warehouse on a criminal-filled stormy night, Stanley's ear couldn't help but interpret the voice as frightening. At the very least it was disturbingly peculiar.

A moment after the mysterious voice had finished, more dust flew into the air right by his head in the wake of a pair of heavy duty gray boots that slid backwards to a halt. Stanleys eyes cast upwards, taking in the sight of this arguably costumed fighter. He noticed padding and pouches and ropes and blades and wires, all attached with various straps and belts to the figures torso. From this vantage point, he looked like a jury rigged riot policeman.

The gray man was panting heavily, forearms still held in his crossed defensive position. His legs were shoulder width apart, forming the same stance he'd presumably been in a few seconds and twenty feet ago. Something had hit him with enough force to move him bodily across the room, yet he'd stood his ground.

Stanleys mind was working fast, but his grip on reality was slipping faster. What had he gotten himself into? How was he going to get out? Why is everyone so angry?

The gray figure lowered his arms slightly to speak.

"Ready?!" he barked irritably at no one in particular.

Before Stanley could crane his neck upwards to see if the trench-coat wearing combatant would respond to this uninspiring trash talk, the gravelly voice spoke again. "Ready!" it shouted, directly into Stanleys ear drum.

The gray fighter nodded, and began to tap his fingers on the back of his left forearm. A light flickered under his digits, and Stanley had just enough time to imagine that it might have been an uber-phone screen before the star speckled ceiling of the warehouse began to hiss at everyone.

It started to rain inside the warehouse. Boxes turned to mush after years of dehydration whilst old and new dust became puddles of mud. Eyes assaulted by confusing drops of water, Stanley rolled over and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Sputtering, he looked up to see Dick Tracy's stunt double standing at ease in the rain not far away. He had his blade on his shoulder with his head cocked slightly to one side. With khaki hat still masking most of his features, a faint aquatic grin filled with teeth could be seen before Stanley's world turned to pain.

Sharp fiery tendrils soared up his arms and into his shoulders. His neck and back spasmed as his face screwed up into a mask of agony. Every muscle in his body was suddenly trying to assert itself and take the helm of this shipwreck of a human being, and they had all decided to start heading in different directions.

It was over in an instant. Stanley swam in darkness.

. . .

The wind tore through the streets of Seattle, sweeping up the detritus of a drowning city and throwing it high into the air. Plastic bags continued their assault on the environment, and an obligatory day-old copy of the Seattle Times flapped like an awkward seagull past closed curtains high above the streets below. No one really knows why old newspapers are so prolific in the field of making an empty alleyway look even more lonely, but it's a dirty job and someones got to do it.

So the ancient media format soared through the air as gracefully as a kitchen mop, passing between the concrete giants of a soggy city trying to sleep through yet another rainy evening. Breaking rank, the tattered mess that was Page 7 beat its way to the front, piloting the flying newspaper to a 6th floor window that overlooked the alley. This wide glass portrait of a gap between buildings was given an extra bit of scenery, as the triumphant Page 7 smacked against the transparent canvas with a dignified "Splot!"

Behind glass, behind curtains, behind a desk sitting in the middle of a cluttered room, was a woman who wore the expression of someone who had just heard something go "Splot!" for the first time. She got up from her desk and walked across her living/dining/bedroom, pulling open the curtains without much fanfare. For a moment she stared out her usually uninteresting window, eyes barely flitting left to right. Page 7 stared back at her indifferently; an old newspaper was no stranger to being gawked at. Her eyes stopped moving, and she closed them for longer than a blink.

The woman, who could only be described as such because the word 'girl' didn't quite match eyes that old, opened them and turned to go back to her desk. A small table by the front door started to vibrate, its collection of rattling keys a signal that her cell phone was ringing. Or not, as it happened. Grumbling under her breath, she walked over to the phone and picked it up,

"Hello?"
"Hey Sweetie! Why so glum?" answered a deep and comforting voice.
"Oh, hey." she said. "Oh! Hey!" she repeated, remembering her adopted fathers inquiring mind.
"Whats wrong, hon? You can talk to me."

Too late. It was Interrogation Time.

"Nothing, Geoff. Honestly. It's just late and I've been working and I heard something go Splot! and then you called."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "...Splot?"
"Never mind. Whats up?"

Conversation Change, attempt #1.

"Working? What does a bank teller do this late at night, seven miles from her job?"

Attempt #1; Fail. And apparently he's keeping tabs on me at work now too, she thought.

"Not work-work. Nursing school applications. I've got about 20 to get through and they're pretty in-depth. Expensive, too..."

Conversation Change, attempt #2.

"Good thing you work at the bank then. Are you alone?"

Fail. "Yes, I'm alone. It's not exactly a group project."
There was a sigh. "You know what I mean. You shouldn't be alone all the time. You need to have some friends over, have a girls night or something."
"I don't know, Geoff. Pillow fights have a tendency to disrupt my papers. Did you hear the library was closing?"

Attempt #3.

"Har, har. Really? Where'd you hear that?"

Success!

"It was in the paper. Apparently they finally got the go ahead on that new super gym. It seems the ignorant masses weren't happy not-using a valuable intellectual resource for free, now they want to not-use another House of Broken Resolutions for a monthly fee."

"Not everyone shares your passion for reading, hon." said Geoff in the weary tones of a long suffering but patient father figure. "Besides, those that do haven't looked up from their screens in years."

She walked back over to the window. "Oh yes, of course. Celebrity gossip and filtered news, THAT'S why we invented digital readers. That's why we're slowly abandoning the trusted methods from thousands of years of human existence. That makes a lot of sense." Page 7 had left the scenery as if in illustration of her words, and the view of the supposedly deserted alley became her main focus by default.

Geoff sighed again. This girl is wiser than her years, he thought. "Then why were you reading the paper?" he said instead, in an attempt to catch his adopted daughter in mid-smuggery.
"It went Splot."
The pause on the other end of the line was longer this time.

"I'm sorry, Geoff," said the woman "but it's getting late. What's with the random phone call?"
The pause continued, or started depending on how long you'd been paying attention.
"Oh... nothing. Just checking up on you. I worry, ya know? You're family. And I worry."
"Uh."
Geoff was offended. "What, we're not family now? Too grown up for your Uncle Gee-off?"
The alleyway below was not deserted.
"Uh..."
"What is it, McKenna?" He could tell something was wrong, he could hear it in the words she wasn't saying. "McKenna, listen to me. If there's someone there, if you're in danger--"

She hurried her words before he jumped the gun. "No! No, it's all right. Don't panic, nothing to worry about. I think."
"Out with it, sweetie." There was nothing sugary in his voice.
"It's just that, well, I don't know how to say this..." There were people in the alleyway.

"But there's a strange man and a midget dragging a body through my alley."

. . .

Stanley kept swimming. There was no pain or angry mobs, no feet to fling forward in desperate flee; he was just floating on a sea of relaxation. The waves rose & ebbed around him, buoying him through an empty dream of calm waters. Stanley could hear a Sirens call in the ether, the sound rousing him from his peaceful slumber.

"...it my fault?! You're the idiot that got caught! Besides, it all worked out, heads were banged together and all that."
"Yes, but there were many heads that were -and I'm sorry to have to bring this up- not exactly facing the right way before and/or after the aforementioned banging."
"You're such a stickler. I left a few breathing."
"Barely. Though you are technically correct; there were a number of witnesses left to describe our antics to the authorities. Including, I might add, some miscreants that 'appened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"We'll take care of that."

Stanley wasn't swimming, but he was wet. The warm embrace of the floating darkness was waning, and his body parts woke up one by one, each muscle struggling to the front of the Complaint Department. As all his senses came back to him, Stanley realised he was being dragged through a narrow street by his left ankle, his other leg bending and flopping around aimlessly. Beyond the sounds of his nearby captors he could hear the peak of car engines as they drove by, and the immediate muffled acceleration as they left. His puffy blue jacket had deflated somewhat as every bump and scrape tore another dripping scar into his clothing. The echoing voices disappeared for a moment as his ears were submerged in a puddle. Or at least in a deeper part of the giant puddle he had already been floating across/dragged through.

The grip on his ankle was vice-like, a one hand clamp that threatened to bruise. Stanley refused to open his eyes for fear he would give away his lucidity, so he focused on every other form of input to describe his situation.

There was a dramatic sigh. "We really need some sort of vehicle for this kind of work, you know." The voice was deep and strong, but impetuous. It was also coming from the man dragging Stanley.

"Do you have a license? Because I don't. And even if I did..." said a familiar gravelly voice. Stanley recognised it instantly, though the recognition was filled with nothing but the pain of his last ordeal.

"Point taken. But either way, we need to stop running around in the rain dragging people all the time. Its ridiculous!" The firm tone and grip meant this man had to be strong. A bodybuilder perhaps?

"If you have such an aversion to physical exercise, why pray tell d'you spend so much time in that little gym of yours?" What was that accent, Australian? New-Zealand-ish? This was getting bizarre.

"What I do in the privacy of my own room with a bottle of lotion is personal business, thank you very much," said the possibly huge individual dragging a fully grown man through the street with one hand for any number of rational reasons, thought Stanley.

While the two continued their exchange, Stanley listened as the voices lost their echo and then regained it. The number of times this had happened since he'd started paying attention meant they'd walked through at least 3 intersections in the alleyways. They were heading back into the city no doubt. Stanley didn't know where his safe zones were anymore, but he was certain they weren't in the direction these strangers were taking him.

He tried to control his breathing before panic set in; wriggling free seemed a fairly low possibility judging by the fingers crushing his foot, but his disobedient and out of shape body might try regardless.

One of the voices became louder, distracting Stanley from his moment of crisis within crises. "...mean it like that, okay?! I was just saying that I would have thought you'd be as opposed to walking as me simply because your legs are shorter than mine," pleaded the man at the end of his leg.

The other fellow spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child. "I understand that. Which is why I was merely retorting that for someone with as freakishly long legs as yours, you sound an awful lot like a whiny little punk who's about to get 'is teeth kicked in." It was as polite a violent threat as Stanley had ever heard.

"Okay, okay, keep your shirt on. You know how you get all foreign when you're angry."

As their echoes died away again, Stanley could tell they were coming to another break in the alleys. They slowed their haul to a stop as they came to what one could assume was the edge of the alleyway.

"Are the cameras working?" asked the man with the iron fist.
"Last I checked," replied the man with rocks in his mouth. They were both speaking in a monotone hush.
Nothing else was said for a moment. Only raindrops could be heard.

Eventually, the man holding Stanleys ankle let go of his grip and gently laid the foot on the ground as though it was porcelain. More silence followed. He had no idea at this point if either of his captors were still in the vicinity, as the rain made any subtle human sounds indiscernible over the weathers rambling.

Stanley decided to risk a glance at his surroundings. He opened one eye first, just slightly. Then he opened the other. He'd been staring at darkness for so long his eyes needed time to adjust, even this late at night. When they finally did, he could easily make out the face of a man standing directly over him. He was staring straight at Stanley.

"Decided to join us, 'ave we?" asked the face.

It was a rough face; scars and stubble peppered a tanned, leathery expression. A black eye and bloodied lip added colour to this canvas of age lines. It spoke jovially, with no trace of malice. This would have comforted Stanley had he not been awake for a large portion of their journey.

"Um.."

The face interrupted Stanley before his ellipsis could get any longer. "Best you keep quiet, mate. Might get hairy here in a second if you don't watch your tongue." Another frightfully polite threat. Laying on the ground in the middle of a wet alley, he decided to oblige this stranger for a little while longer. He'd need a long breath of air to successfully scream for help anyway.

A bright light suddenly blinded Stanley from the middle of the road. It was followed by numerous others, all of them now lighting his position on a sidewalk. He was actually only partially on the sidewalk, his legs splayed out in front of the alley that his torso still occupied. The face was nowhere to be seen, leaving him at the mercy of whoever was advancing on him from the road.

Two police cars were parked next to the sidewalk. Their spotlights illuminated the entrance to the alley more than the flashlights held by the approaching officers, but the flashlights doubled as bludgeoning devices so Stanley figured they weren't a completely unnecessary. Yay.

"We've found suspicious activity in the vicinity of the call-in, dispatch," said the officer who was now pointing his beam right at Stanleys face. The other officer stood next to him on the edge of the sidewalk, scanning the surrounding area with his own light-up beating stick. Neither looked amused to be out in the rain.

As the one who spoke waited for a response from the Police issue bullet-proof uber-phone hanging over his shoulder, he gestured at Stanley with his light. "You want to tell me what you're doing laying in the middle of the street, son?"

Stanley glanced around for a moment, remembering the words of the face that had filled his vision not long before these abrasive lights. He wanted to scramble to his feet and thank his saviours profusely, to praise them for their duty and for scaring away his kidnappers.

"Well?"

"Um..." He also wanted to know how hairy a situation was allowed to get before a shave & a haircut became fatal.

"Out with it, kid. This ain't my idea of a fun filled evening."

"I was just uh just going for an ah, a late night jog and and, I fell! I fell and landed right here. In this puddle," he stammered as he pushed himself up onto wet aching elbows.

Stanley had made his decision. Who knew where his shady company had hidden themselves waiting for him to say the wrong thing? He wasn't about to risk upsetting the individuals who had been kind enough to drag him all these blocks. Besides, the police interruption might give him enough stalling time to run for his life. Again.

Before the two policemen could process this blatant untruth, a scratchy dispatcher started squawking at them through their phones.

"chhtk, we need backup over at the warehouse situation down on Alaskan Way, over, chhtk"

They looked at each other bemusedly with their flashlights pointed at Stanley. The one who hadn't said anything said something.

"Are you sure, dispatch? I thought they had that situation under control?" As he talked to his own shoulder he shrugged at his partner. He shrugged back. Neither of them were looking at Stanley at all now, their flashlights lazily falling away from his sidewalk seat.

"chhtk, negative, we need you to take point ASAP, it's a mad house down there, over, chhtk" came the swift response.

The officer who spoke to Stanley turned to him as he was getting to his feet. "Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to be more careful. These streets are dangerous." The other officer nodded his head in agreement and probably proof of this statement, menacing eyes regarding Stanley a moment longer than was comfortable as they about-turned and walked back to their cars.

And that was it. The two police cars started their engines, donned their red & blue flashing hats and drove off into the rain filled darkness. Stanley stood silently in the wet dark night wondering if he should start running.

"You're probably thinking of running. I strongly advise against that course of action, as we don't quite fancy dragging you back 'ere through the rain again. Do we?"

Stanley didn't know if this was a rhetorical question or not. A voice above him answered both queries.

"Exactly! Especially since you're awake now and can just walk across the street like the rest of us apparently have to."

As he slowly craned his neck upwards, Stanley was just in time to recognise the man in gray from the warehouse before he leapt down from the metal fire escape staircase attached to the alley wall. He landed 15 feet later and immediately began walking towards Stanley. He raised his wrist to his mouth and started talking into it.

"chhtk, we got ourselves a con-fused individual right h'nyah, over, chhtk" squawked a bad Southern accent. It came from Stanleys uber-phone.

His eyebrows furrowed like slow moving glaciers colliding as he reached inside his coat for the phone that couldn't possibly be making the noise. By the time he'd remembered it was attached to his wrist, the gray man was standing directly in front of him. Their noses were dangerously close to becoming Eskimo kisses, their unblinking eyes inches away from each other. The gray man raised his wrist to his mouth again, obscuring it.

"Hooo-WHEE, he's a gin-you-wine little piggy!!" he squealed. He lowered his hand to reveal a wide smile. Stanley was transfixed with fear, curiosity, and a little bit of claustrophobia. The man in gray was standing really close.

"Okay lads, quit flirting. Like the man said, we've got a home to get going to and it's not getting any less wet out here." The voice came out from behind a nearby dumpster in the alley. Underneath the voice was a short man. A very short man with a scarred leathery face. Stanley was at the breaking point of what his mind could comprehend, so between the dwarf and the acrobat in gray armour he decided to give up on trying to understand anything.

"Home?" he asked. Pleaded, to be more accurate. It was clear he hadn't given up on the idea that he may sleep in his own bed tonight.

The dwarf with the gravelly voice pointed past Stanley to the other side of the street behind him. "Yeah, Home. Big building, right there. Can't miss it."

Stanley turned around to look at the giant construct these men called home. As he stood there, they took their positions either side of him and began walking off the sidewalk and across the road. Unable to take his eyes off this great white building, he walked with them. It had seemed implied, and running didn't seem to make sense anymore. Nothing made sense as the evenings events unfolded for his minds' eye, so why should any decision he make right now bear any semblance to a rational thought? Rational and logical thinking hadn't worked so far tonight.

As they got closer to a set of unassuming wooden doors that marked the entrance to what Stanley was fast realising was a possible hostage situation, the man at his waist spoke with a smile.

"Yup, I can tell this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship."

The man dressed in gray riot gear on his other side squealed again in maniacal pig-like delight. The wooden doors closed behind them.

. . .

The lobby of this apparently abandoned building had been dark and musty, no room even for shadows as they walked across the featureless room. Yet inside the elevator it was as bright as a new day, every corner of the tiny moving room visible under the yellow light. Stanley stood between the two strangers and tried not to make eye contact with them. This wouldn't have been so difficult had the elevator not been adorned with the classically uncomfortable mirrors on all sides. He didn't want the short gentleman to notice his gaze falling down to his level, and he really didn't want to know what the gray man was eying. They both made him uneasy for completely different reasons.

The shaky box was still ascending. Stanley noticed outside that the building couldn't be more than 40 stories tall, so the long wait must be due to aging machinery. The decor inside the elevator looked outdated and neglected; this place wasn't just abandoned, it was Old. There wasn't even a working indicator of what floor they were on. The short man had hit a series of buttons when they'd entered, but they hadn't stopped once yet. Some sort of code? Or maybe it was just that old & broken.

Had there been any cliche muzak playing in the background, this situation might have put Stanley at ease. More ease than he was currently at, definitely. As it was, the only sounds to comfort him were from his breathing captors and the rickety box being hauled up a concrete shaft that had surely lapsed in its government inspections. He glanced at the button panel where a sign usually indicates the last time the elevator was serviced. The sticker was burnt beyond recognition. Yay.

"Here we are," said the short man with the still indiscernible accent. Immediately the elevator jerked to a stop, bobbing ever so slightly in case one of the passengers may have inadvertently kept their stomach during the ride. The doors opened slowly and with surprisingly less noise than the rest of their journey. The two men pushed gently past Stanley and walked into the room beyond the elevator doors. He glanced at the button panel, wondering if he could hit the Lobby before anyone noticed he was making his escape.

Yes, he could hit the button. Of course, there would be that awkward moment of "Door Close" button-mashing wherein his captors could saunter over and render him unable to push buttons again. Stanley liked his fingers, so he decided to step out of the elevator and made a point to remember that it hadn't gone back down yet.

The two men were walking across a wide expanse of carpet in the dark. It wasn't completely dark though, as the lights from the city above and below cast just enough light to get by. Stanley looked around and realised the entire room was filled with tall windows protected by metal bars to prevent anyone from falling out. Or getting in? It was clearly a sight seeing area as he proceeded to do just that, keeping a steady pace behind his tour guides. He still couldn't tell where he was in relation to his own accommodations, but he was starting to realise he wasn't that far away. He recognised a few intersections and structures, but he was trying to take in all of his surroundings at once so he gave up.

Stanley finally stopped pivoting his head as the three of them walked through a small door on the other side of the room. Over the top of this portal was a decaying sign he could barely make out. At one time it may have said Private Residence, though it could easily have been mistaken for Pirate President. Stanley was marginally worried that the latter might be more accurate.

They were walking up a flight of stairs. There was no decor here, very little light, and too many echoes. He followed in sullen silence as they wound their way up to what Stanley was starting to consider his final resting place. He shoved the thought from his mind through logical thinking. Of course this wouldn't be his final resting place; they'd throw him off the top of the building if nothing else.

The stairs had come to an end. The two men fanned out into an impossible room at the top of them, and Stanley was left on the last but one rung in mid step.

"Step right up, step right up! You have just entered the Dungeon of Digital Debauchery!"

The manic gray man was sat on a desk with his legs dangling between two girls in swivel chairs. Staring at computer monitors, their fingers tapped across the keyboards in front of them at high speed whilst unheard music apparently separated them from the rest of the world via giant headphones that engulfed the sides of their heads. The table the three of them occupied was crammed against the side of the wall closest to Stanley, and the rest of the tiny but tall room was equally claustrophobic.

Stanley took a tentative step forward, craning his neck up & around to survey everything. The room wasn't wide but it was tall, almost a spire from the inside out. Wires ran across every flat surface, especially the vertical ones, threatening to trip, strangle, or even suffocate unwitting passersby. Opposite the table with the girls and computers was another table filled with even more technology, scattered and disassembled bits of unidentifiable gadgetry interwoven with various tools.

As Stanley took yet another shy step, he had already almost finished his grand tour. The entire apartment area could be observed in a couple of minutes it seemed, and everything was covered in an 'Imploded Radio Shack' motif; tools, wires, computers & tech-trash were in every corner and on every surface. Stanley did notice, however, that a small kitchen area towards the back of the room was completely clean & organised. There wasn't a hint of electronic debris in this area, separated from the static carnage throughout the room by a tiled island.

"One more step and you're going to be in a world of hurt, mate" came a voice like the bottom of the ocean. It was the dwarf with the accent, standing on a set of metal stairs that led up to the top of this electronic bomb site. Stanley saw that the stairs led up to a walkway that lined the room above them. They also led further but he couldn't see where. He wondered if that's where his final resting place would start it's downward journey.

Stanley was frozen on the spot. He glanced up and saw a giant glass structure dangling from the top of the spire. The black surface shimmered like an oily puddle, not so much reflecting light as absorbing it. It looked like a giant glass heart that had been melted and reformed. It also looked very, very heavy as it hung directly above his head.

"It's technically art, but it also doubles as a handy defense system. If you aren't cleared for entry, that beauty comes crashing down around you."

The stumpy gentleman with the laid back attitude toward shards of falling death walked over to Stanley. Still staring at the glass structure, Stanley felt the man pull the phone from his wrist mount and heard him fingering a complicated pattern on the screen. By the time he'd regained his confidence to look somewhere else, the gruff foreigner was putting the uber-phone back in its place.

"There you are, all set. For one night only, you get to enjoy our limited hospitality."

Stanley was starting to get annoyed. First they drag him through the rainy Seattle streets, then they threaten him, and now they want to manhandle his personal possessions as if they were doing him a favour? Even he had his breaking point, and fiddling with his phone was pretty close.

"Where am I?" he asked politely, cautious fright keeping him from asking any other way.

The man looking up at him smiled, leathery lines parting as his lips moved. "Kid, you are in the safest place this side of the Oregon Trail."

Apparently that was all he was getting for now as the dwarf turned and walked back up the stairs to Somewhere. When he was out of sight, Stanley turned to the other occupants in the room. The gray fighter was still dangling his legs between the two girls in front of their computer monitors, whispering into the ear of the one furthest from Stanley. She giggled like a little girl.

"Excuse me, but um.. who the hell are you people?" Stanley was getting irritated by the lack of professionalism. He had been led to believe that being kidnapped was a harrowing experience, yet all he'd encountered so far was dumbfounded confusion.

The gray man looked up as if noticing Stanley for the first time. He jumped from the table by forcing his hands off the edge and stomped towards Stanley.

"You people? You people?! What the shit is that supposed to mean??" he barked, poking his finger into Stanleys chest. "We saved your ass back there, and its not even a cute one. A little gratitude wouldn't go amiss, you know."

He started to circle Stanley, eying him from head to toe as he did.

"You barged into a covert operation, friend. Months of research and planning wasted, thanks to YOU." He poked him again as he finished his circuit of Stanley.

"I uh, didn't realise that. I was running from some people. Um. Sorry?" The apology felt weird. Sorry, I was trying not to die, my bad?

The gray man turned his back on Stanley. "Do you know what we do to meddlers around here?" he asked coldly.

Stanley didn't know. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to be here, or in the warehouse, or in the alleys near his home. All he wanted was his warm bunk bed. Maybe even the top bunk, just to feel special.

The man in the gray armour spun around with alarming speed. He lifted up Stanley bodily around the waist and slammed him to the floor, pinning his arms with his knees. He sat himself on Stanleys stomach, the weight pushing the air out of him. This wasn't the giant bodybuilder he'd expected, but it definitely felt like one.

The man on top of him darted his fingers into Stanleys armpits. He wiggled them furiously, pulling them out and then darting back to the sides of his torso.

"Who's a ticklish baby then, WHO's a ticklish little baby, eh?! YOU are! Yes you are, yes you ARE!!" he cackled. His voice resembled the unwarranted smothering of an elderly aunt or grandmother. His smile was wide and ecstatic, a frightening view from the floor.

"Get off of me this instant! This is completely uncalled for!" is what Stanley wanted to yell. Instead, all he could muster was a wailing scream mixed with high pitched laughter as his assailant continued the onslaught of tickling.

"AAAAGH-AHAHAHAGEDDUFFMEAAAAGHAHAHAHA!"

After an eternity of torture, one of the girls at the computer monitors finally swiveled in her chair to face the heap of frantic flailing and laughter.

"Dudes, this is totes distracting. Puh'LEEZ stop grab-assing?"

Stanleys eyes were shut tight in squealing anguish as the assault subsided, his muscles still tensed in spasmic terror when the weight was lifted off his arms. The human body is never more alert than right after a tickle fight, and Stanley was anticipating another attack.

Eventually he opened his eyes. The gray figure was on the other side of the room leering back at him, a wide smile providing little to no comfort. Stanley pushed himself up onto his elbows and turned to face the girl that saved him from needing a change of underwear.

She held out her hand in the universal symbol for Stop. "Before you say anything, I don't care. I just work here. And right now, you are preventing me from performing my duties. Which are petty and boring and possibly retarded, but they are Mine. And I do NOT wish to be disturbed again."

Her voice was flat and unwelcoming, but Stanley didn't notice. What he noticed was her slender figure and pretty porcelain face. She was covered in tattoos that were easily seen thanks to her short skirt and tank top, and her hair was cut in a sharp pixie style. It was also bright pink.

"Oh, Cassandra. Give the guy a break, yeah? He just got jumped by a frighteningly handsome fella and doesn't quite know what to do with himself," said the leering man across the room.

She turned her head slowly and squinted her eyes at the speaker. "You know damn well I'm Amanda. And you know damn well that I find you repulsive." She turned back to Stanley and gave him a thin smile. "You are less repulsive. But you are loud. Please stop."

With that, she swiveled back to her monitor. At the same time, the other girl swiveled around in the opposite direction and fixed her eyes on the handsome/repulsive man who had jumped Stanley.

"I'M Cassie," she purred. This wasn't just a figure of speech; she literally tried to purr like a cat at the end of her introduction, a painful act considering the lack of appropriate consonants at the end of her shortened name.

She looked almost identical to the girl sitting next to her. Except her hair was in pig tails, and she had no tattoos that Stanley could see. That is to say, Stanley couldn't see any skin other than her face due to the brown bear suit she wore from neck to toes. It was form fitting but still fluffier than a human being should be, and it crackled as she moved thanks to the static energy that built up every time she moved. She was leering right back at the man who had dragged Stanley here, who walked over to her with purpose. He put his hands on the armrests of the fuzzy twins chair, his face barely an inch from hers.

"Yes. Yes you are, Cassie dear. And I see that you are impeccably dressed for any and all occasions as usual." The words dripped from his tongue like verbal syrup as the bear-girl giggled into the palm of her hand uncontrollably.

Stanley was back on his feet and feeling quite annoyed again.

"Look, I don't want to be rude but seriously; who are you people?"

The cooing Lothario snapped to attention and focused his on Stanley. He furrowed his brow and straightened his lips as he advanced again, with Stanley throwing his arms up over his head in shielded anticipation.

"My name is Tom, Dick, AND Harry. But you can call me Barbara."

Stanley let his arms down to see a gray glove extended front of his face.

"Oh I apologise, how rude of me." The man quickly removed his glove and shoved the naked hand back in Stanleys face. "Hello! Pleased to meet you."

Stanley reached up and gingerly shook the hand where it hung within smelling distance of his nose. Apparently satisfied with this exchange, the gray man pirouetted on his heel and walked off towards the stairs the three of them had risen from. On his way, he managed to take off the other glove and various bits of body armour in a series of simple movements. By the time he'd gotten to the top rung of the stairs. he was already starting to shrug off his now unencumbered unitard.

"I'm going to the gym. I may be some time. There'd better be pizza."

His head went out of view just as he stepped out of the legs of his spandex undergarment. The door to the Pirate President suite closed with a soft thump.

Stanley was left in the middle of the room again. He looked around as silently as he could, trying to determine if it was finally time to make his escape. He took a step towards the stairs.

"I'd go up top and talk to Clive if I were you," said one of the girls in the swivel chairs. "Before you go." she added.

Stanley froze momentarily. He couldn't tell which one of them had spoken, and neither were even looking in his direction. With a heavy sigh, he walked over to the winding metal staircase that led even further up into this lanky room. The walls came in closer as he climbed higher into the vaulted ceiling, a faint light emanating from a hole at the top.

He reached the end of the stairs and the hole in the ceiling at the same time. There was nowhere else to go but up, so Stanley shrugged and used the two rung chain link ladder to boost himself into the room above. When he emerged from the hole he realised it had all been a trick; this really was the beginning of his final resting place. But instead of throwing him off the roof, they'd decided to make him walk off voluntarily. He was spinning, dizzy and screaming as the skyscrapers twirled around him. His arms flew out wildly as he searched for purchase, certain he was falling to his death.

A small hand whipped out and slapped Stanley in the face.

"Calm down already, aye? You're giving me a headache."

. . .

Outside of a warehouse on the edge of Seattle, Lieutenant Danielson stands in an almost empty parking lot. His eyes are closed as he listens to the Puget Sound berate the pier in front of him. His other officers make little noise as the waves drown out the investigation. All the lights are off in the warehouse, so bobbing flashlights skim through windows into the rain filled night as each officer makes their obligatory search of the building. Lt. Danielson knows they won't find anything. They knew they probably wouldn't either, but they go through the motions anyway. It was just another night on the job in this hopeless city, and Lt. Danielson was waiting to clock out.

He opened his eyes, sighed, then began walking across the parking lot towards the ominous building. He knelt down in a puddle to look under the cars parked there, dutifully doing his job. It wasn't the job that paid well, but it was the job everyone thought he cared about so he kept up appearances. The cars hadn't been moved for hours judging by the saturation of the gravel in the lot. Unsurprising. He got up and walked over to a door that marked the side entrance to the warehouse.

He pulled a tissue from his pocket and gingerly pushed the bar running perpendicular to the door at waist height. It opened easily, over and over again as Lt. Danielson tested its hinges. Sturdy, undamaged. He peered behind the door, a faint glow from the city's streetlights creeping through the doorway. There was a metal shelf blocking the door from opening all the way, and the shelf was badly dented where it touched the door. Lt. Danielson noticed tiny shavings from the metal shelf on top of the dust that covered every square inch of the warehouse. He wondered if his officers would have picked up on the same clues if he hadn't sent them through the front entrance where they were still meandering around. Probably not; they were paid to do what they were told, and he had told them this was a routine forced entry vandalism case.

There had been a scuffle here. Not the all out brawl that was being ignored at the center of the building, but a smaller encounter. Foot and hand prints led from the door down the aisle of shelves, debris from overturned boxes covering the dust that covered everything else. Curious.

"Is everything in... order?" came a voice from the shadows. It was scratchy and hoarse, mocking him with an air of superiority. He could hear the sharks smile even if he couldn't see it.

"As much as can be expected," replied Danielson to the dark shelves beyond his vision. "But it's going to be hard to cover this one up. Trouble making teens breaking into an abandoned warehouse to cause a ruckus is believable, but the extent of the damage is a head scratcher. Even for my team." he added, almost spitting the possessive pronoun.

"I'm sure," said the voice. Damn that man, thought Danielson. Smug bastard.

"I assumed you'd be long gone by now. You don't usually like to clean up your own mess."

"I... should be," responded the shrouded voice. "But here I am, handing you the proverbial... mop." Smug, smug bastard.

The voice continued talking from the darkness. "They started a small fire. It set off the sprinkler system. A faulty generator... shorted, and that's why the power was knocked out. Simple. Even for... your team."

Danielson scoffed. "Oh right, of course, I should've seen it immediately. The lack of any evidence of arson threw me off." He did not like this man that hid in the shadows. He didn't like his tone or his methods, but he did like his money. Dirty money, but it paid better.

A figure stepped into the aisle of shelves in front of him. The man was dressed in his all too familiar khaki trench coat and fedora, though he looked wet. Drenched, in fact. And Danielson couldn't be certain, but he was sure he could smell burnt hair. He kept his amusement to himself as he quickly pieced together what he thought had gone down in this warehouse.

"You would do well not to... mock me, Lieutenant," said the man in the wet trench coat, "lest you forget where your allegiances lay." He wasn't smiling. Danielson couldn't see his eyes, but he could feel them on him. He didn't like that either.

"We have a lot invested in your... career, Lieutenant. We do not wish to see our investment go to... waste."

Lt. Danielson was angry now. "Well, maybe if you told me more than fairy tales I could actually do my job!" he snapped. This was ridiculous; he'd been taking orders from this creeper for years, but he was becoming infuriatingly more mysterious as time went on. Danielson used to think he was a messenger boy, but was starting to realise he was an ambitious career man. He wondered how far up the totem pole he'd gotten in recent years.

Now the khaki man was smiling. It was crystal clear amidst the shadows of shelves, devoid of any joviality.

"Fairy tales? I have a tale for you, Lieutenant. Its a... short story. Or it will be if you do not handle this situation," said the khaki man. Still smiling, he added "Now go and do your... job. I fear you may be about to encounter more fairies."

Lt. Danielson jerked around as he heard police sirens from the parking lot. He turned back to the khaki man immediately but he was already gone. Cursing himself, he ran through the open door into the rain.

"Shut them off! Shut. Them. OFF!" he yelled as he watched two police officers jump out of their respective vehicles and start to survey the area with adrenaline filled vigilance.

He got up close to the officer nearest him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?! This situation has been under control for over an hour, where did you come from?" He was furious. Of all the things in his life that were out of his control, he liked to take comfort in the order and efficiency of his department. Bent & dirty, but organised nonetheless.

"Sir, we were told to come here ASAP by dispatch, sir!" barked the officer with the lieutenant in his face. He'd been ready for some much needed action, not a dressing down by his scary superior.

"Bullshit! Where were you?"

"Sir, we were investigating suspicious activity near (...) street, sir!" chimed in the second officer who was starting to regret flunking out of art school. "Then dispatch told us to race here! Sir!"

Still inches away from the first officers face, Lt. Danielson thought about the Suspicious Activity call.

He eased back from the frightened officer in front of him. "Well, did you find anything suspicious near (...) street?"

"Uh, no sir," replied the ruffled officer. "There was a some guy lying on the sidewalk but he seemed harmless. Kinda dumb, actually."

Dumb, ha. Dumb was being fooled by a phony dispatch call, thought Danielson.

He looked over his shoulder at the warehouse behind him. Fairies, eh?

"What was that, sir?"

"Nothing," said Danielson, turning back to the affronted officers, "I was just saying that there seems to have been a miscommunication. Seeing as you're already here, go help the others inside. I'm sure there's some sleuthing for you to do."

The excited officers practically skipped away towards the warehouse, saluting smartly as they went. Good Guys, apparently. Eager to please & leap into the fray, it seemed. Lt. Danielson shook his head. We'll see how long that lasts, he thought.

He closed his eyes and listened to the waves.

. . .

Stanley sat in the corner clutching his knees to his chest.

"Look mate, it's perfectly safe, alright? This dome has been here for decades."

So I'm sitting in a really old glass bubble balancing on top of a decrepit skyscraper, thought Stanley. Yay.

The tiny viewing room was like being inside a diamond. Each glass panel was separated into facets by thin metal joints, leaving the grandiose 360 degree view of the city unencumbered by pesky building materials. As raindrops poured off the roof of this tiny transparent cloud, Stanley kept his eyes on his own feet. The dwarf named Clive was standing right next to him, confused as to what to do with the heap of limbs gently rocking back and forth on the grated floor.

"Oi, you're not afraid of heights are you?" he asked with an exaggerated eyebrow.

Stanley continued staring at his own feet. "No! No, I'm... I'm just afraid of depths." He didn't even gulp dramatically in case the displacement of weight sent the whole impossible structure tumbling 500ft to the sodden streets below.

"Ha! Nice one. Seriously though, it's fine. Look," said Clive as he began to gently jump up and down. The glass enclosure was small enough that Clive was probably the only person around that could physically get away with this. Stanleys feet became increasingly fascinating.

The dwarf stopped tormenting Stanley and sat down next to him. He put a reassuring hand on a shaking shoulder for a moment as he got comfortable.

"My name is Clive. Glad to have made your acquaintance. I'm sure you're confused as to why you're here, and I apologise for the less than savoury means in which you arrived." The short man turned to look out across the city through one of the wide panes of glass.

"My friend down there, the one with all the accessories? He can be a bit of a handful. No worries though, 'e means well. Unfortunately, he went a bit overboard back at the warehouse. Set off the sprinklers, sent an electrical current through the water to give us a distraction. Knocked you right out, it did. Sorry 'bout that," he added cordially, turning back to face Stanley.

"Thing is, while we were escorting you out of that unhealthy situation I did a quick background check on you." His eyebrows furrowed as he continued, "And it was the damnedest thing; I could barely find a lick of info 'bout you. No About Me blurbs, no photo streams, not even a screen-name."

Stanleys pride surfaced over his paralysing fear for a moment. "Well, I do try to keep a low profile."

Clive shook his head. "Nah mate, not like this. Not by yourself I mean. You've got no history, no family tree, no birth records. Even your Creditz Card purchases stop short of a name and social security number. This kind've paper trail clean up is old school stuff, probably before your time even. I'm guessing someones been trying to keep you a secret for a long time."

He gave a wry smile as Stanley finally looked up from his feet. "And that makes me very curious."

Stanley hesitated. "So, why did you bring me here?"

The little man sitting next to him took a deep breath. "Well, it's like this; you are a conundrum to me, one which I intend to look into in great depth. Sorry," he said as Stanley winced. They were still very high up. "However, you may have noticed there was a bit of a barney goin' on in that warehouse. Guy in the trench coat, scary sword? See, we were supposed to be surveying those gentleman what were all laying about when you turned up. I was creeping around, didn't see the khaki bloke, he knocked me out and threw me in a sack. Nice sack though, genuine burlap."

There was a pause. Stanleys eyes were wide as everything he'd experienced at the warehouse began to fall into place. The man named Clive continued his story.

"Anyway, things have been pretty hectic for us since that dude started turnin' up. Being in that sack was no fun, and Squirrel barely held his own against that guy. So for right now, I want to tackle my mysteries one at a time. You? You can wait. We'll be real friendly like, and as soon as I've got a handle on this bloke in a trench coat malarky, we can start figuring out what your story is."

Stanley had a hundred questions he wanted to ask this mellow man. Why were they surveying such dangerous people? What was it they did that required so much secrecy? Why was everything covered in wires?

"Um. Squirrel?"

Clive laughed. "Oh, right, yeah. My friend, the fancy fighter. I call him Squirrel. He doesn't like it, but it fits. He's an ADD man-child and a computer genius, though it's hard to talk to him for 5 minutes and still use that word to describe him. We've been chummin' around for years, he's a good guy. Bit misguided though, which is where I come in." He looked over at the city again.

"I found him when he was 18, sitting outside a Starbucks. I'd just gotten here a few months before, trying to make a new home for meself. I'm a bit of a computer whiz too, and I noticed he was quite calmly using a hacking algorithm to pocket the tax whenever someone bought a coffee. This was before Creditz Cards, so it was a little easier back then."

He smiled at the memory. "I could tell he was special. Still don't know his real name; he'd done a bang up job of erasing himself from the net, and I'm pretty sure he did it on his own. Can't believe a word that comes out of his mouth, but he's got your back when you need him." Clive looked at Stanley. "Though you might not want to turn your back on him; he's not picky about who he harasses."

Stanley was lost in a sea of micro-history. "Who are you people?" he pleaded for the third time that night, hoping he'd finally get an answer.

Clive took another deep breath. "I've always been a bit of a community activist, me. Try to help out where I can. Used to be you could share a movie with a mate online who hadn't seen it, now you've got people stealing your life savings if you use your email address to redeem a coupon." His voice was low now, filled with a world weary tone.

"Me and Squirrel, we help where we can. Some people can't help themselves, and some don't even know they need it. There's too many mean spirits around, and they need the most help of all. Hence our... alternative methods."

Stanley was dumbfounded. "Wait, are you telling me you're some sort of Extreme Community Watch?"

Clive chuckled. "Hehe, sort of. The girls down there do most of the watching, though," he said as he nodded towards the hole in the grated floor in front of them. "Cassandra and Amanda, or Cassie & Manduh. We picked them up a few years ago, twins no less. They're nice girls, bit weird so they fit in wonderfully. Keen eyes and quick on the uptake. We couldn't get away with 'alf the stuff we do without 'em". He chuckled again.

"Why are you telling me all this?" asked Stanley quizzically.

"Because you're a scared little twerp who isn't gonna go blabbing to anyone," responded Clive abruptly. His ability to insult and threaten in a sing- song manner was uncanny. Besides, he was right thought Stanley.

"And," he went on, "it beats having to lock you up in one of the many empty rooms in this place. I'd rather keep you as our humble guest than a prisoner. Like I said, I still want to get to the bottom of you. Haha, I sound like Squirrel. Ahem, anyway; so long as you're willing you're more than welcome to treat this place as a second home. From what little I could find online, you ain't got much waiting for you out there."

Stanley thought about his 8 year career as a Fast Food Drive-Thru operator. He only left his apartment twice a month because he worked from home thanks to the webcam interface, and that was only to remind his employers he still existed by accepting their money. He'd almost forgotten that picking up his paycheque was how this eventful evening had first started. Had his roommates even noticed he was missing? They barely conversed when they were in the same room together. Stanley started to realise he wasn't getting rescued any time soon. By the sounds of it, he already had been once this evening.

Clive got up off the grated floor and started to climb through the hole in front of them. "C'mon, lets go see what the girls are doing. Shouldn't leave 'em alone for too long, no knowing what they'll get into."

By the time they'd walked down the metal staircase and reentered the hub of technological mayhem that was apparently a headquarters of some sort, the twins in front of the computer monitors had moved. The bear suit named Cassie was carrying the clothes and armour plating that had been dropped around the room by the man in gray. She dumped them unceremoniously on a table filled with bits of wires and gadgetry, and pulled her swivel chair over to the same table. The pink haired Manduh was quietly tinkering with something on the floor in front of the kitchen area. Fabric and sewing materials were spread out around her in an untidy circle.

Without looking up, Manduh gestured at Clive and Stanley. "Take a look at the footage from the warehouse cameras. There was something weird going on across the street not long before duder screwed up the connection with his spaz attack." She went back to fiddling with whatever required so much gray fabric. Her slightest movement sent the sheets of gray billowing up and down like a parachute.

Clive walked over to one of the computer monitors. The flat panel screen was frozen on a scene of the street in front of the warehouse, freeze frame rain almost completely obscuring the Viaduct Gardens that hung in the distance. Stanley recognised the location as soon as he walked up behind Clive, who had already started rewinding the footage.

There was a quick flash on the screen as lines of static whizzed by in reverse. Clive paused it and began playing it forward. This time the flash was slower, lasting a few seconds before disappearing. He backed it up and played it forward again a few times before finally announcing to the room, "What the hell was that?"

Stanley shuffled his feet. "Um..."

He could suddenly feel all the eyes in the room on him.

"Um, that was me. I think. I mean, it looks like me."

Clive looked at the screen. "I don't see shit. At least not any shit that looks like you." He faced Stanley again. "Not much, anyway."

Stanley continued against his better judgment. "That flash, under the Gardens. I'm pretty sure that was me. Or, uh, my phone actually." He already regretted offering such personal information. Until now he'd never told anyone about his makeshift self defense techniques.

He didn't notice the fuzzy girl behind him until she snatched his uber-phone from it's mount on his wrist. He whipped around to protest but she was already turning it over in her hands, placing it on the table in front of her amidst the plethora of technology strewn about the presumably flat surface.

"I wouldn't bother, it's completely dead since I used the flash..." Stanley began to say. He stopped when he heard his phones tell-tale beep as Cassie switched it on. She was already tapping the screen before he could explain that there was a pass code. This security measure was immediately bypassed by her nimble fingers as Stanley visibly deflated.

"Don't worry, mate. It's her job," explained Clive. "And your phone was probably just in a low power state. We've got wireless charging plates fixed all around this room; soon as you walked in, your phone started soaking up as much energy as it could get." He nodded towards Cassie. "Thank 'er for that modern creature comfort. I swear we're all becoming sterile what with all the unseen crap flying through the air up 'ere, but she keeps the trains running and whatnot so we don't complain."

Cassie perked up from her seat at the table. "This is pretty good work, Clive. He's not only hacked the root processing files, he's managed to divert primary functions to preset custom commands." There was a hint of admiration in her assessment. Stanley felt a pang of pride again. Twice in one day? Things were looking up.

Clive was still replaying the bright flash from the camera footage. "So; you rigged a command prompt that let you focus all the power in the phone into one super powered flash light for a few seconds. Why?"

"Keep watching," replied Stanley. His voice was heavy with the memory of running.

They both stared at the monitor in silence as the rest of the events after the blinding flash unfolded in grainy black & white. Nothing at first, a couple of buses pass by, some static. Then they see tiny dark figures emerge from the road. One at first, then more, all heading in the same direction towards the camera on the warehouse.

Clive turned to Stanley, whose eyes were closed. "Hang about, you're telling me you used the flash as a defense tactic?" There was another hint of admiration. "That's some pretty good work right there, too right."

Manduh, still on the floor surrounded by fabric, joined in the discussion. "Great. Now we have two boys who love playing with toys. Does this one leave a trail of bodies in his wake, too?" The distaste in her voice was unmistakable.

"Nah, this one blew his load too quickly. Just stunned 'em," dismissed Clive over his shoulder. He was still looking at Stanley.

"Huh. Well, he's got one up on our guy then. He can't go five minutes without giving somebody an aneurysm."

Stanley opened his eyes and met Clive's. There was nothing to be read from his stare, so Stanley just stood in place, unblinking. Clive finally dragged his eyes back to the computer monitor exactly two seconds after the moment became officially awkward. The rest of the footage was still and boring until static filled the screen, presumably when the gray man not-called Squirrel set off the sprinkler system.

And subsequently electrocuted me, thought Stanley.

"Seems like you've already got the hang of in-the-field retreat maneuvers. Good, that part always bores me." Clive closed all the windows on the screen, powered off the computer, then spun around and looked up at Stanley. He clapped his hands and started rubbing them together. "Tomorrow you get to see some real action."

The little man put his hand on the small of Stanleys back and propelled him towards the metal staircase that lead downstairs to the observation deck. Cassie was waiting at the top of the stairs with her hands behind her back and a helpful smile on her face, an eager beaver in a bear suit.

"Cassie will show you to your room. Got to 'ave a decent nights sleep if you want to be fresh and limber for the morning, right?" he said, hurrying his words in time with his feet.

"Wuh?" asked Stanley. "I mean, what happens in the morning?" He hadn't realised how tired he was until right now. The prospect of sleep clouded any other emotions that might dwell in confusion or fear.

Clive was already walking across the unkempt floor towards the kitchen. A coffee mug had appeared in his hands from nowhere.

Cassie's hand took over where Clives had left off. She gently pushed Stanley down the steps, both of his feet finding purchase on each level before heading on to the next.

"Oh, don't you worry about what happens in the morning, New Meat," she cooed gently. "The Crazed Crusader will take extra special care of you."

Stanley was starting to float again as he was led to his room. He barely noticed the lights from the sleeping city twinkling on and off through the window bars, and the elevator ride went by in the blink of an eye. The whole night had seemed like a horrible nightmare, so in this dream state he barely acknowledged the room filled with zoo animals as he hovered to his own door. Another blink and he was staring at a bare ceiling.

He closed his eyes and tried to wake up.


. . .