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“Get on the ground with your hands behind your head!”
Leona hollered.
Heart thumping, she shielded her eyes from the thick ash of the explosion. Their deafening silence was mournful confirmation of what she already knew: this face-off would not end peacefully. But defiance was what made this gig fun, right? She double-checked the clip of her particle beam firearm ensuring it was fully charged just like her daddy taught her.
She tried not to inhale from the mushroom cloud of smoke that engulfed her, knowing a cough would reveal her position inside the rubble that was once a kitchen. Lying on her belly, she crawled over broken glass, arms scraped and bleeding, past the prone bodies of the rebel fighters taken out by her Ray Blast Bomb. A hazardous move on her part considering the bomb’s immense force, but one she deemed necessary after realizing she was surrounded. She moved towards the leader’s raspy panting and steadied herself for a clean shot.
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say and do, yadda, yadda. You’ve been arrested enough to know the script so we can skip to the end, right? I’m going to give you to the count of three to surrender your weapons. It doesn’t have to end here for you boys.”
“We’re not your boys, Sgt. Cynane” called a gruff voice from the shadows. “And there’s no way in Hades we’re going to prison! I tell you what though, let’s do an exchange: you give us a break, and we’ll tell you where to find your crush.”
“Excuse me for questioning your matchmaking skills, but I respectfully decline. Countdown starts now—one!”
Glass crunched to her right.
There were more survivors than she’d anticipated. They must’ve split up for an ambush. She quickly wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs and charged up her second weapon.
“Everyone in Sector C-3 knows you’re obsessed with finding Stealth. What’s funny is he’s been here all along, right under your nose.”
“That’s hardly a surprise, all you delinquents live in Sector C-3. Two!”
“Rumour has it he tunnelled underground and built a lab. Maybe if we let bygones be bygones, you and I could—”
An almighty burst erupted behind her before she could respond, as the man’s accomplices fired on her position. She retaliated quickly, firing red neon beams rapidly into the air, the wall, the men. She cut down two targets, their insides dissolving instantly on the filthy floor. Helter-skelter - the chatty perp - bolted out the back door. Her aching body crashed through debris after him onto the narrow street. Elbowing through hordes of disgruntled civilians she shouted after the fugitive, “Stand down! Stand down!”
Desperate, he snatched a small child from the arms of its distracted mother; grabbing him by the hair he pressed a weapon to the boy’s temple, a quivering finger on the trigger. “Let me go, or I’ll blow his brains out.”
Unsteady on his feet, eyes wild, blood trickled down the side of his neck. This was no idle threat. “Look, this has nothing to do with the kid. Let him go. It’s not too late to let bygones be bygones, just like you said.” She slowly began to lower her weapon.
“You don’t get it. You can’t see what we’re trying to accomplish. We’re not the threat.” Keeping the gun trained on the boy but relinquishing his grasp, he unzipped his torn, dust-covered jacket with his free hand, wincing in pain as he shimmied each arm out. “If you were in our place, you’d do the same thing.”
“Put your weapon down now!”
“I just wanna go home. Is that too much to ask, Sergeant?” he asked, shaking his head in dejection. A shiver ran through his body, as a pair of enormous, glossy black wings emerged from his spine – they must have been nearly twenty feet wide, end to end. Both magnificent and terrifying, the whole world went in slow motion as the beating wings swooped upward, shaking the foundations, catapulting him from the ground in one swift motion.
She tracked him upwards as he soared through the silver sky, slicing through the clouds, leaving the streets in chaos beneath him. Her legs grew weak; she leaned against the now cracked, crumbling wall, as the winged man faded to a speck in the distance.
The blaring of EMT sirens arrived in short order. Paramedics spoke patronizingly slow to her, as though she were concussed, as though a hard knock to the head would explain the recklessness and destruction she had caused. Slumped on the gurney inside the drone pod, she submitted to their ridiculous baseline questions,
“Do you know your name?”
“Yes. Sgt. Leona Cynane.”
“Why are you here?” He shined a light in both her eyes for an uncomfortably long time.
“Because I’m a cop.” She sighed, fighting to keep her temper in check. “An informant came to me and snitched on his ex-buddies claiming they were plotting a kidnap for ransom in Sector A-1.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes. I arrived at the scene alone and made contact with the perpetrators. My presence was met with hostility and heavy resistance, resulting in nine fatalities.”
“Did you inhale a lot of smoke, your breathing seems laboured?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
They insisted on hooking her up to a pain med IV and ventilator. Her whole body quivered with rage, hot blood roaring in her ears. All of it was for nothing. Despite all the death and destruction, she was still no closer to knowing where Stealth was, or who was helping him make Minute Magic. What did you expect? They’re hardened criminals with no respect for the law. Warm and authoritative, an inner voice eerily similar to her dead mother, repeated the family mantra passed down over countless years. You were out of your depth. Admit it to who matters, cry it out, and let it go.
The chemicals pulsed through her bloodstream until the voice echoed far away, and everything faded to black.
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, media outlets had posted their news vans shamelessly outside of Leona’s apartment building. With T.V. cameras and microphones ready, they huddled like a pack of wolves, waiting to pounce on her the moment she came outside. She had stayed awake all night staring at the tick, tick, ticking of her alarm clock. When 5:00 AM rolled around, her hologram transmitter buzzed, summoning her to the captain's office at the police precinct.
Tired, and more than a little agitated, she donned a dark hoody and snuck out through a private side exit to the hyperloop station. She’d already had to endure the reporters’ interrogations about yesterday’s fiasco and it was not an experience she was in a hurry to repeat. Thankfully, she soon found herself camouflaged by flocks of disinterested commuters packed into the small train car.
She gazed listlessly at the concrete maze of Casperson City-State as the train sped silently along its rails; devoid of leafy trees, or even those green things that grow unruly between sidewalk cracks, it was bleak. Neon billboards were plastered on the side of every skyscraper blaring nonstop propaganda disguised as commercials, constantly inundating residents with strong suggestions about what they should buy, how they should behave, and why they should have unflinching devotion to President Wyatt Horne. It was hard to even hear yourself think.
Their first stop was at the Sector A-1terminal; a superfluous waste of money in her opinion. A-1 was the most affluent borough, occupied by President Horne himself. No one living there would be caught dead riding public transportation. It felt like a slap in the face that this terminal, out of all three boroughs, should be the most lavishly constructed, expensively decorated, and the most tightly guarded. Security guards, in fact, were the only people she ever saw there. Doors closed, stealing the fragrant fumes of myrrh pumped through the vents, and they sped away to Sector B-2.
A less anxiety-inducing borough, B-2 was brimming with middle-class, working families and Supernaturals. Stony-faced commuters trudged aboard, and she like other humans, did her best not to stare; ethereal nymphs were draped in transparent slip dresses, floating above the floor; Fey feathers peeked out from under cardigans; the pearly whites of vampire fangs glimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights, and hybrid children with oddly combined features chatted in groups oblivious to the interest they garnered from other commuters.
Casperson’s city motto was: One city, one people. Politicians really downplayed the frequent uprisings CCPD’s discreetly snuffed out, but anyone in law enforcement would agree that the fragile harmony of the species had bent. In fact, it was perilously close to breaking. She routinely caught herself profiling men who carried large bags as potential rebel terrorists, or equally terrifying, drug mules for Stealth—or Stealth himself. She envied those who lived in the luxury of obliviousness, sometimes.
Sector B-2 Supernaturals purposely understated themselves to assimilate with the human population, taking up mundane jobs they were comically overqualified for; steaming milk for cappuccinos as coffee shop baristas, fixing refrigerators as repairmen, or ordering rogue cops to wait in an empty office as the police captain’s receptionist. The bespectacled centaur glared over at Leona, his hooves clip-clopping noisily across the bustling space to the coffee maker.
“You’ve really done it this time.” He muttered.
“Done what? My job? Yeah, I did.” She stomped upstairs to the Captain’s office, slamming the heavy door shut behind her, immediately regretting how attention-grabbing it must’ve seemed. Concentrate. You’re like a child throwing a tantrum, Leona.
Whilst she waited for her superior to join her, she let her eyes roam the walls showcasing yellowing posters of army vets from The Red War, lopsided framed certificates, dust-covered award plaques, and family photos. Her mother, Lieutenant Diana Cynane, stood sandwiched between her sons while holding Leona, a toddler, who that day had been sporting a large nonsensical pink bow in her hair, and only one sock. She studied her mother’s fair face, dark teardrop eyes, berry-stained lips. People said they could be twins, but she thought that was an undeserved compliment. Her mother had a glow that drew people in; she, on the other hand, was always pushing people to their breaking point. Ten days after that picture was taken, CCPD would find her broken, stiff corpse in a Sector C-3 gutter, her neck snapped by a mob of rebel ogres who’d been plotting a bank heist. Although gone physically, her mother’s legacy—and her voice—haunted her.
Tucked haphazardly between the tattered cushions of a chesterfield, she spied a tablet, labelled MM. This piqued her interest, but as she started scrolling, Captain Cynane’s unmistakable baritone boomed down the corridor. On impulse, she stuffed the tablet in her bag and zipped it shut just in time, as a towering juggernaut of a man stormed through the door.
His steely green eyes cut through her. Jaw clenched, he loomed over her for several tense seconds saying nothing, gripping the leg of a stool. She worried he’d swing it at her, but he slammed it down and sat instead.
“Where do I even start?” He growled.
“Look da—”
“Captain Cynane-” he interrupted, “-in this precinct. Here, I’m not daddy. I’m the superior of a gunslinging, self-destructive Sergeant.”
“I know it looks bad, but—”
“A wine stain on a table runner looks bad. Forgetting to call your brother on his birthday - we’ll talk about that one at home - looks bad. But hunting down known rebel terrorists in the most dangerous sector in Casperson City – alone - is insubordination and an automatic two-month suspension.”
“What? You can’t be serious.” She knew he was stubborn as a rock, and there would be nothing she could say to change his mind. She felt her chest growing tight as she struggled to take a breath. Talk about a kick in the teeth.
“I am genuinely shocked you’re sitting here, and not lying on a cold slab in the morgue. You disregarded basic protocol: when you encounter Supernaturals that dangerous, you must notify TFO.”
Casperson City Police Department’s alliance with The Fallen Ones, TFO for short, was supposed to be temporary. But that temporary had been going on for as long as she could remember. If CCPD caught a case they couldn’t handle - a werewolf on a rampage, a vampire on a bloodlust binge - they called in the TFO. Enormous magisterial men with grim expressions, the original crossbred species: half dark fey, half-giant. Their interpretation of solving a problem usually resulted in a high body count.
“They would’ve destroyed a city block.” She argued.
“Newsflash: you destroyed a city block, Leona.” he rubbed his face with a meaty palm and sighed. “Look, I was going to wait ‘til later to say this, but you need to hear it now. I just left an important meeting with the DEA and Internal Affairs - pertaining to you.”
“Me? About what?”
He riffled through his briefcase, fished out a notepad, and adjusted his reading specs on the bridge of his wide nose. “It’s all constructive criticism in my opinion.”
“You know, never mind we don’t need to—"
“I took notes.”
“Of course you did...”
He cleared his throat. “They said you’re seriously toeing the line between cop and vigilante. Although you have strong altruistic qualities, they’re overshadowed by your obsession with Stealth—and at this point, obsession is the appropriate word—that’s not only causing this city collateral damage but destroying your ability to do your job objectively.”
“You don’t have to read it all.” She groaned, massaging her temples.
“I don’t mind. In fact, I insist. They used phrases like ‘high risk’ and ‘cut-throat’. You display behaviours of moral ambiguity; either consciously or unconsciously sowing the seeds of your own destruction, and a general lack of respect for authority, which I assured them is nothing new.” He glared at her, before continuing. “Your mother and I tried our best to nip this in the bud when you were little, but it got out of control after you hit puberty.”
Her jaw dropped, “Dad, you did not mention my puberty in a meeting with the DEA and IA! Do you hate me?” She huffed and sank into the couch.
“It was a difficult time for the whole family. Anyway, overall they think you have a blatant disregard for human and Supernatural lives.”
“Okay, I get it.” She said through clenched teeth.
“No, I don’t think you do. Leona, what you do affects this whole precinct. The minute people stop trusting the cops is the minute civility devolves into anarchy. You’ve lost weight, you’re drinking more than I can remember, and you spend all your time looking for this Stealth person who might not even-”
“What?” she snapped. Say it. Who might not even be real...”
“Honey,” he let out an exasperated huff and tussled his short grey hair, “it’s been two years and no-one has seen him. No-one has heard his voice. Don’t you think all the surveillance cameras on the streets would’ve caught at least one image of him by now? We know Minute Magic drug is real, it’s already out there. We know it’s dangerous and we need to find out where it’s coming from... But the idea that a single person could manufacture and distribute it is frankly absurd.”
She squeezed her fists so tight her knuckles cracked. “You mean to tell me, a perp sprouting feathers and flapping off into the sunset is fine and dandy, but an extraordinarily discreet and intelligent drug dealer is completely out of the realm of possibility?”
“What I think is irrelevant. Internal Affairs are removing you from the Minute Magic case. They think it would be in the city’s best interest if we had someone more... equipped, to take this on.”
“More equipped? You mean, a Supernatural.” She sprung to her feet and made for the door, but he intercepted her.
“Honey-bunny, stop.”
Ugh. The nickname. She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “That’s everyone’s default, and I’m sick of it. We are way too dependent on their kind.”
His eyes rolled, “You’re being dramatic.”
“I might not be able to fly or breathe fire, but I do know how to solve a case. The Fey I was about to arrest told me Stealth drilled underground in Sector C-3 and built an entire Minute Magic factory. I just need a little more time. Just give me a week, I can get to the bottom of—”
“Do you hear yourself? Built an underground factory... by himself? With no one seeing?”
“Well, uh...”
“I understand what you’re going through, honey-bunny.” He calmly ushered her back to the couch and handed her a mug of now lukewarm coffee. “I tore this city to shreds looking for the people that stole your mother from us. I had that same fire I see in your eyes right now. But if you let it take over you, it’ll burn you up ‘til there’s nothing left. I miss my daughter. Your brothers miss their sister. If we don’t take this from you, you won’t let it go... and it’s time to let go.”
TWO TRAIN STOPS LATER she arrived back home, at her plain, densely packed dorm, exhausted like when she had finished a high school triathlon. Even then, when other dads were doling out hugs and high-fives to celebrate crossing the line, hers would rattle off a list of mistakes she’d made that prevented her from coming in the first place. Maybe IA wasn’t the one who pulled you off the Stealth case—maybe it was his decision? Nothing she did ever seemed to be good enough for him.
She collapsed onto the stiff mattress, trying futilely to focus on anything other than her incessant, self-deprecating thoughts; the new blue bruise on her forearm, the rotting stench of boiled cabbage seeping through the walls, another profane-laced domestic squabble resounding from the neighbours in the apartment below. Why did she ever decide to rent a place alone?
Same reason you do everything else alone—pride. To prove the naysayers wrong. Because you don’t work well with others... should I keep going?
“Shut up, you sound like him.” She whispered to the mouldy wall.
Catching sight of her tattered bag she’d chucked on top of a pile of dirty laundry, she remembered the tablet she stole from her father’s office. The password was her mother’s birthday, as were all his passwords, despite her warnings that he could be hacked. Lucky for her, he never listened.
The file on the tablet catalogued the havoc the Minute Magic drug was wreaking on the city, though in much more frightening detail than the report she’d compiled herself. She skimmed the log entries made by the chemists hired to identify the components, sensing palpable fear in their words:
September 12th, 2210
A sample of the neuroenhancement drug was provided to our lab for analysis six months ago; however, we are no closer to discovering the precise element that causes it’s astonishing, yet temporary effects (hence the street name Minute Magic, MM). My colleagues staged a control group, administering MM to subjects over a four-week period, and noted the following abnormalities: novice painters progressed to expert level, poor writers became eloquent, and runners only ever capable of a six-minute mile could sprint up to three miles during that short time.
The side-effects of MM were initially minimal; excessive sweating, akathisia, occasional fatigue, but as the weeks progressed, we observed the subjects develop severe tremors, tardive dyskinesia, and signs of mania, with a dependency for MM. Some subjects were foaming at the mouth and becoming violent with doctors when refused their pills. In-depth testing revealed that MM will eat away at a subjects nervous and endocrine systems. We have not, and may never, develop a cure.
It is my unfortunate duty to report that all forty-seven subjects (who willingly volunteered and signed a certified NDA) are dead. Their families will subsequently be notified via hologram messaging. In total: 3,241 Casperson City occupants have died as a direct result of this drug—and counting.
Her blood ran cold. She scuttled to her tiny kitchen, and poured herself a glass of rum and downed it, as she hurried to read the next entry from a Drug Enforcement Agent:
October 30th, 2210
We attempted a sting operation to detain the drug dealer who goes by the street name, Stealth. We communicated with the suspect through courier message and arranged a drug transaction in public last Friday, October 27th, 2210 in a popular nightclub, The Bridge. Before said transaction, the police department installed numerous cameras and listening devices throughout the facility.
On the night of the operation, The Bridge was occupied to capacity by both civilians and undercover agents. The lead agent was unclear whom to search for, be it human or Supernatural. They waited for four hours without being approached with Minute Magic. Our commander determined the operation should be called off when, according to the undercover agent, the duffel bag of cash he brought in exchange for the drugs disappeared from his hand, and was replaced by a briefcase full of MM.
Additionally, each of our twenty-eight agents was physically assaulted; letters were carved in the nape of their neck with surgical precision, unbeknownst to them, seemingly at the exact same moment. It is unclear how Stealth was able to identify them. I recommend an investigation through Internal Affairs for possible collusion. No image or audio was captured. The suspect appears to lack remorse and enjoys taunting law enforcement. We have no other leads to his location, and he remains at large.
