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Sector A-1 might as well have been another planet. Unlike the other boroughs bursting at the seams with city dwellers, the streets of A-1were vacant, and understandably so. The people who lived here weren’t worker bees — they ran the hive. Sitting alongside Ms Ever, inside a drone pod that had a distinctive, metallic smell of blood, Leona watched as they glided past large gothic mansions and two of the three imposing white castles President Horne owned. He had spared no expense installing hundreds of pricey faux trees and blossom-filled bushes; whether nostalgia or purely for aesthetics, she didn’t know, but their likeness to real plants was unnerving.
Coasting under the canopy of their branches made Leona feel remarkably depressed. Rivers and pastures, fields and forests — entire ecosystems — had died off following the Fleet Treaty signing, initiating the assembly of geoengineering planes with a company named Simlow. Thousands of pilots had flown, coast to coast, pumping thick, reflective aerosols into the atmosphere. Humanity’s last-ditch effort to avert being burned alive. The strategy had worked - for a time - but the higher-ups had determined that even more drastic measures were needed. This had resulted in the launch of the massive, reflective space mirrors into orbit and albedo-enhancement factories that sprayed polluted seawater in the sky to thicken the clouds. The results were effective but grim. No more crisp violet leaves blithely wafting to the ground in fall. No more stargazing under the white light of the moon on summer nights. No dawn. What’s the point of looking up when there’s so much to do down here? A bizarre consolation her mother had always offered whenever she complained.
People shuffled about their long, seasonless days perpetually sullen and cold—everyone except for the people in Sector A-1. Residents were comprised of Casperson City-State politicians or workers for Simlow. And with zero regulations on how much money they could make, to call their lifestyles lavish would be a gross understatement. Rumour had it, they had simulated sun machines built inside their palaces.
“I live here.” Ms Ever announced, breaking the ride-long silence that Leona had been savouring. “Where do you live?”
By the vamp’s snide tone and turned-up nose, Leona figured she already knew. “I live in C-3. I love it, it’s very eclectic. You should visit sometime.”
Ms Ever chuckled, shaking her short, black bob, “Don’t C-3 people kidnap for ransom? No, if I went there, you’d never see me again.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” She muttered.
The furious vamp stomped on the break of her drone pod and spun in her seat to glare at Leona. “Do you think you’re better than me just because you have a badge, and you’re ‘roughing it’ alongside commoners?”
“I think nothing of you.” She shrugged.
“No? I see the judgement in your eyes. You think I’m an A-1 groupie.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Condemn me all you like,” the vamp huffed, “but I’m the one living in the lap of luxury, Sergeant. I sleep on authentic Egyptian cotton sheets, bathe in lavender pools, and—”
“And wag your tail when they give you a treat.” Leona finished for her with a grimace. “You’re an exotic pet to these people. Look, we don’t have time for you to try and convince me you’re happy, and besides, I couldn’t care less. The only reason we need to talk to each other is to solve this case. So, let’s get to it, shall we?”
THEY ENTERED THROUGH the massive double doors to Horne’s imperial foyer, which bore a striking resemblance to the temple they’d just left. Dozens of gold pedestals throughout the space displayed archaic American memorabilia: a Bruce Springsteen vinyl record, a packaged Twinkie, a singed flag. It felt less like a home and more like a monument to a fallen empire. At the far end of a corridor was an enormous aquarium, filled with emerald green seaweed and jagged pink coral; but instead of fish, melancholy mermaids swam in circles. More pets, she thought. He must be a collector.
They took the elevator to the seventh floor, each of them stewing in silence. It felt like the journey would never end. When the doors gratefully slid open Leona was taken aback. It was apparent that whoever occupied this space was mentally unstable. Discarded clothing and food containers littered the cavernous space. Pages upon pages of piano sheet music were strewn about the floor, crumpled and burned, pasted on walls, and flung across the round mussed-up bed in the centre of the room. A young man wearing blue jeans and a white shirt slept on the keys of his classic Bösendorfer piano, startling himself awake as his nose accidentally struck a note.
Ms Ever nudged Leona from the elevator with a sharp elbow between the shoulder blades and stabbed the down button. “Good luck” she sneered as the doors rattled closed in front of her, before Leona could protest.
Relieved to be rid of the moody vamp, she turned back towards her mission; Kennedy. Even in his dishevelled state, the young man was ruggedly handsome with his shaggy copper mane and broad shoulders. His eyes, however, were hallow. They cut over to the elevator when he realized someone else was in his room.
Staggering over to where she stood, he knocked over a glass as he went. Wine splattered between his toes and he tracked cherry footprints on the floor. He appraised her like a piece of art before announcing, “I don’t know you.”
“No. My name is Sgt. Cynane, and—”
“Oh, Cynane like the warrior princess of Macedon? They taught us about her in school. She was the sister of Alexander the Great, and I read that she fought on the front lines of every battle. Is that what you do?” He was indeed sweating profusely, breathing rapidly as he spoke.
“Yes, in a way. Except I’m the only one fighting this battle it seems. All the other soldiers in my army don’t believe my enemy is real.”
“Who’s your enemy, warrior princess?” he asked, blithely plopping down on his bed with a boyish grin.
She meandered further into the room. “Stealth.”
His expression morphed from amused to suspicious in a matter of seconds. His face visibly paled. “I’ve never heard of him before.”
“I didn’t tell you Stealth was a him...”
“I can’t help you.” He buried himself under his thick velvet duvet, but she lunged in and snatched it away.
“Actually, I think you can. You’re going to tell me where his lab is. Or better yet-” she pulled out the faze-ray gun she’d concealed under her trench coat. It would knock him unconscious, but not cause any serious harm. She pointed it at his chest, “-you’re going to take me there.”
“I think this is the part where I’m supposed to ask, ‘don’t you know who I am?’ and you say ‘sorry’.”
“Your dad’s the one that called me, Kennedy.”
His jaw fell slack. “My dad called the cops on me?”
She re-holstered her gun and sat beside him, with a sigh. “He’s really concerned about you, Kennedy.”
“I doubt it. I genuinely think he’s lost the ability to care about anyone but himself. I’m his favourite because I’m the youngest and easiest to bully. He’s a scumbag. If people knew the things he did and said in private, they would burn his kingdom to the ground.”
“Things like what?” she pried, scooting closer to him.
“He’s fixated on Supernaturals, worshipping them more than the gods! He banned witchcraft hoping it’ll stop them from trying to return to their realm, did you know that? And worse, he’s convinced that humans would be better off with some of their DNA, so he bribes people to have hybrid kids with monthly stipends. If he has it his way, there will be no people left at all.”
Leona let him rant, mulling it over. It certainly explained a lot. Casperson was constantly being inundated with ads showing things like a suspiciously attractive vampire and a human eating cereal with their overly enthusiastic hybrid son. Or a disarmingly friendly Fey with their human spouse discussing what toilet paper to buy with their rosy hybrid daughter. She had always taken them to be a message of inclusion, of acceptance. But hearing Kennedy’s take on his father’s ambitions put them in a whole new light. Horne’s clever little social experiment. She shivered inwardly. “I don’t know what I can do about it, I don’t even know if it’s a crime.”
“That’s the thing warrior princess; he can always find a loophole. No one can stop him from doing whatever he wants. He treats me like I’m still ten. Always talking down to me, telling me what I’m allowed to do—it’s aggravating.” He grumbled.
I know the feeling. Her suspension as a cop by her own father was the adult equivalent to being grounded. He probably still saw her as that same big-bowed, single-socked toddler as the one in the picture he had hanging on his office wall. “They can’t help themselves. In their eyes, you never grow up.”
“Exactly!”
“It’s not fair. You’re always having to prove yourself to them.”
“That’s why I started taking Minute Magic,” Kennedy insisted, “to show him I’m talented at something. Anything. I didn’t know it was so dangerous...” Angry tears spilt from his hazel eyes.
She gently wiped them away with her finger, and reaching for his hand, she interlaced her fingers with his, resisting the urge to weep. She was all too familiar with that diminished, powerless feeling that only a father knew how to inflict. “Sometimes children do dangerous things to get their parents attention.”
“You understand...”
Without warning, he moved in closer and gently pressed his lips to hers. She tasted the salt from his tears as he kissed her tenderly. The pervading fragrance of myrrh from his skin filled her nose. His soft palms were strong, as he gripped the back of her neck. Reason told her to push him away, but it’d been one of the worst weeks of her life. She wanted – no, needed the comfort. Oh, why the hell not.
THREE HOURS LATER THE pair was strapped in one of President Horne’s borrowed drones, gliding aimlessly through Sector C-3. Except for the three dragons ducking and diving through the clouds above them, they hadn’t seen another creature for miles. She gave Kennedy the side-eye as she realized, in her distracted state, she had never asked exactly how he knew where Stealth was. For all she knew, Kennedy could be blundering them to the middle of nowhere.
She watched him surreptitiously, as he fidgeted nervously in his seat. You could’ve rung a puddle of sweat from his shirt. Deep tremors periodically shook his body; a clear sign of withdrawal, according to the report.
Tearing her eyes away from the young man who was rapidly unravelling before her, she concentrated on staring straight ahead. She ran her fingers through her long brown hair and took a deep, calming breath. “Hey, about what happened back there...” she cleared her throat, trying to find the rest of her words. But failed.
His frantic eyes darted back and forth. “It was nothing. Let’s focus on getting to the lab.”
“I think it’s important for me to tell you, it was unprofessional, and not something I normally do.”
“We gotta find that lab.”
“Kennedy? Can you hear me? Kennedy, I’m turning us around, you don’t look so—”
“There!” he shouted so loud she hit the brake, skidding the drone to a messy crash landing.
He kicked open the door and broke into a sprint, screaming Stealth’s name. Throwing himself to the ground, sprawling on his knees, be began clawing out great clods of dirt with shaking hands. “It’s here, it’s here. I gotta get more, I need more.”
She reached for his shoulder, but he flinched away like a wild animal, growling “I need more!”
With militant reflex, she whipped out her stunner and pulled the trigger in an instant. He thrashed on the ground, eyes bulging, mouth-foaming, before his legs eventually gave out and he fell limply to the ground.
Heaving, she dragged the dead weight of his body back to the passenger seat of the drone; he would be out for an hour or two. Shutting the door, something shiny glinted in her periphery. Something that resembled... a handle?
Racing over, her fingers brushed against something that didn’t belong. She realized Kennedy’s manic digging had revealed a trapdoor. Yanking it open, without a second thought for the dangers which lay below, she revealed a set of crudely carved stairs leading down to a dark tunnel. As she took the first step, she recalled her near-fatal mistake from earlier.
She tried to contact her father for backup, but it went straight to voicemail. “Da—err—Captain Cynane! I’ve found Stealth. I’m turning on my tracking beacon so you can meet me at his location, but I can’t wait. I’m so sorry, I can’t!”
Particle beam locked and loaded, she charged down the hole towards reverberating clanking glass and scraping metal. This can’t be a coincidence, he’s gotta be down here. No more running—this ends now.
Full of heat and dread, she picked up the pace. If she could take out nine Fey on her own, she could handle any danger that came her way. She remembered the small Ray Blast Bomb in the pocket of her trench coat and flicked it on, ready.
A strong smell of sulphur emanated through the long, dark corridor, and she covered her nose and mouth to keep from gagging. Creeping as close as she could get to the entrance of the fluorescent-lit room just ahead, she carefully peeked inside. An expansive laboratory was set up, with dozens upon dozens of glass beakers and graduated cylinders. There were stainless steel environmental chambers, freezers, pricey looking machines she thought looked like bioreactors and incubators, she recalled from a documentary... and a cot.
She listened fiercely for distant voices, but other than the low whirring of the machines, it was completely quiet. There was only one person there that she could see, but others could’ve been staked out elsewhere. Her inner voice screamed at her to get out. This is too easy, it’s a set-up. Turn back.
The figure in the centre of the room wasn’t the ghoul she had envisioned; clean-cut hair and glasses, he was wearing a loose cardigan. If she’d seen him any place but here, she’d never suspect him of being a criminal mastermind. But, if not Stealth, why else would he be down here?
Sitting, staring at his own bare feet, it didn’t appear he’d heard her coming. She could take the shot now; injure him, but not critically. Just enough to disable him so he won’t run, so she could bring him into custody. But just as she raised her weapon to fire, he stood up unexpectedly.
It was so quick, all she could do was gasp. In a millisecond, he was at the counter mixing a solution in a test tube. Then in a blink of an eye, he was rummaging around in the open fridge, and then back on the cot. No one can move that fast! He must be a Supernatural. But those abilities are unheard of...
She was frozen to the spot for what felt like hours, as she watched, mesmerized, at the figure darting back and forth across the room. In reality, it must have only been around thirty seconds of indecision that passed, before she raised her weapon again in both hands. Warm beads of sweat dripped in her eyes. She blinked them away. Aiming at one of his legs, she drew a deep shaky breath, steadied her aim, and pulled the trigger.
His howl echoed off the steel walls; he clasped the crippled appendage, dark blue fluid spurting all over the floor around him.
“CCPD!” She marched briskly over as he flailed on the floor, face scrunched up in agony. She aimed her weapon directly at his chest. “Drop your weapon!”
“I don’t have a weapon” he groaned. “I’m losing a lot of blood. You have to put pressure on my wound, or I’ll bleed out. I know you don’t want to kill me, or you would’ve shot me in the head.”
She didn’t break eye contact, steeling herself for the next move. Every fibre of her being wanted to pull the trigger, end his life, and the reign of terror he had over her city. But, begrudgingly, her conscience won out. Grumbling under her breath, she reluctantly stashed her weapon back in its holster and set off in search of a first aid kit.
LOCATING A HANDFUL of faded elastic bandages and gauze pads that looked like they had been there since before the Treaty, she attempted to wrap the hole she had put in his leg.
In the time it took for her to go to the cupboard and come back to treat him, he’d pulled himself to an upright position and his bleeding had stopped significantly, along with his wheezing. To her astonishment, he sat staring at her with his bushy brows scrunched together in confusion.
“Are you human?” he asked politely.
“Don’t talk to me.” She pulled tightly on the fabric, as she bandaged up the wound, just to be safe. Where is this backup? They should be here by now.
“People think I’m human. That’s why I get away with so much. You don’t realize how privileged you are in this city. Supernaturals are second-class citizens.”
“You creatures have more privilege than I could dream of.”
“You mean the Supernaturals that have kids with humans.”
She gasped and stared at him, “That’s not—”
“It is true. Kennedy Horne told me about his dad paying to make hybrids, and I suspect he told you too, along with the location of my lab since he’s the only person I’ve ever brought here. I’d hoped with his access to the president, he and I could make real change, take down the oligarchs oppressing my kind and the poor... but turns out he’s just another rich kid junkie.”
“Don’t call him that!” She pulled tighter on the bandage, turning it almost into a tourniquet. “You know, you really should do some self-evaluating. You’re the only one responsible for your problems.”
“The problem is you people. You think you’re the good guys because the history books you’ve inherited are all wrong. Contrary to what the books say, us Supernaturals didn’t sporadically feel compelled to leave our realm and fight in your Red War. We had no idea what it even was, or that you all existed. Your governments found alchemists, and gypsies, and witches, and who knows what else, to rip through the veil to our realm and summon us here against our will.
“You think we want to live in such a dark, depressing place? We actually took care of our world, human. We still have blue oceans and tangerine sunsets. We actually get along, without needing armed guards staked out on every corner ready to shoot us if we fall out of line.
“There are thousands of my kind, Drifters, who can move at the speed of light and turn invisible, where I’m from. But here it’s just me and the people I’ve managed to turn.”
“Turn?” She stopped, aghast.
“Minute Magic is my blood and marrow. I mix it with an amalgamation of steroid enhancers, and it alters the genes of a select few who become Drifters, just like me. No matter how many tests your scientists run on it, no one’s figured out what’s in it, but people still down it like tequila shots. Isn’t that insane?” The corner of his mouth twitched, the hint of a grin that never emerged. Or maybe it did – it was just too quick for her to see it.
“You’re insane...”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be the last of a dying breed in this realm. It’s only worked three times, but if I keep going—”
“Three thousand, two hundred and forty-one.” She interrupted, backing up across the room.
“Excuse me?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Three thousand, two hundred and forty-one. That’s how many people and Supernaturals have died as a direct result of your Minute Magic.” she spat.
“That can’t be true.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“If you like, we can stop by the morgue on your way to prison, and they can confirm that number for you.”
“That was never my intention,” he said, hurriedly, eyes wide, all hints of amusement vanished. “I swear!”
“Whether it was your intention or not, you were reckless with this gift, or whatever you wanna call it! You’re a criminal. By the end of the night, you’re going to be in chains and locked away.”
“I didn’t mean to do it, but...I’m not going to prison.” His grief was short-lived. Peering up at her from the floor where he still lay surrounded by his own, drying, blue blood, his eyes locked in on hers. Who’s going to make the next move? Like a gust of wind, he slugged her with stunning force into the counter.
Slamming backwards, she knocked over a pair of beakers, smashing glass all around her as she hit the floor. He flew on top of her before she could take a breath. He placed a firm grip around her neck, urgent, powerful hands choking her. “You don’t understand what it’s like for us! We had families! We had a home!”
Her ears rung loudly, like church bells banging in her head, and the fluorescent lights grew dim. Using what little strength she still had before she inevitably lost consciousness, she frantically searched her pocket. Feeling the cool metal around her fingers, she silently thanked her God and tossed out the bomb.
Stealth tracked the small object as it flew across the room. She saw the flicker of recognition across his face. “You’re crazy” he hollered, “you’ll kill us both!”
In the split-second he loosened his hold, she clasped her firearm, pushed it hard into his chest, and squeezed the trigger. She pulled it again and again till he collapsed on her, a dead weight. “Help... Aletheia...momma...” but her voice was weak, strained.
Sprawled out on the floor, flat on her back, eyes open wide; she tried to pray, but couldn’t remember the words. Slipping, spinning in and out of consciousness, everything felt like it’s underwater. His thick, sour blood leaked into her mouth and nostrils, soaking her hair; she was drowning in him. She wanted to spit it out, but she’d lost the ability to do anything but close her eyes.
