short timers: Episode 4b

Ed walked down the hallway, feeling as though he’d just been shot at. The woman was a mystery hiding in plain sight. It irritated him to no end that he’d been so bothered by their impromptu meeting. The simple truth of attraction to the sharp tongued thief combined with the sense of the ticking clock in the back of his mind, reminded him constantly that he was lonely. Not for the feel of flesh, but the sense of companionship that he’d never known. Since his beginnings as a Short Timer he’d felt the dense pull of something missing, which identified itself as something to do. There was no real place for ambition in the group, just the lightening fast pace of discovery and assimilation, and the problem of finding something to do between the hours of training, and mission prep, and operation. They all read books and wrote journals, but that simply wasn’t enough to bridge the gap. There were still many hours left in the endless day to sit back and think. Thinking, without the follow up of doing, could lead to running around in circles of madness. He needed an outlet besides fine tuning his body. He thought he’d make an appearance in the mechanics lab, where all the new weapons and armor fittings were made for them.

Even this felt a little hollow. He knew that he wanted to know Stella better, but like many men insecure in their abilities with women, he didn’t want to show his weakness to her. So instead he would practice the age old mistake of ignoring the object he so wanted to study. Simply to feel he was proactively handling a weakness, that undoubtedly meant that he was proactively handling it wrong. All to mask a very simple fear of embarrassment. Then again, maybe she would seek him out for conversation again. Perhaps she was lonely enough herself to break pride and habit, and seek out his company. He doubted it.

He shook his head and went to his room and changed into his scrubs. He sat at the computer and took some time to write a small journal entry. Cryptic and vague at best. As if by writing in code would somehow make the point less obvious that he was trying to hide from himself. His writing started to change, right before his very eyes. His usual explanative sentences shortened, and began using stranger and dense words. He wrote for longer than he thought he would, but he was enjoying himself. He was writing poetry. Purposefully straying into the strange land of silhouettes and double vision thought. He wrote around subjects, then shot straight through them, almost as if he were describing a fighting tactic around a subject through language. Parry, parry, lunge, parry, block, evade, strike!

His final draft wasn’t very good to him, but it had felt so wonderful doing it. And by thinking so hard about his subject, he’d effectively burned it from his mind. He’d lightened his brow, and felt a smile at the edge of his lips. Yet another discovery, and another system to assimilate.

He closed the writing program, and opened the database. He searched ‘poetry’, and began reading.

Jance was scared to death. The things he’d seen over the course of the last few days defied his sense of reason beyond what he thought possible. It was like the fast forward button had been pressed, but he was still stuck in normal time. Just two days ago, (at least he thought it was two days, he lost track easily without the natural break of sleep) he was on a rooftop watching over Stella as she hacked through more than a dozen men. After that he was teaching Morgan the subtleties of the Psyche Field which now he seemed to be a master of. Things moved so quickly here, or they didn’t seem to move at all.

He was dressed in his scrubs, sitting at his computer console, wondering what he would do about the upcoming missions. Morgan was insisting that he learn the intense martial tactics that all the other Short Timers knew. But Jance was still having difficulty with the concept of murder; he just couldn’t bring himself to get used to it. He needed to speak with Morgan about it again before they faced Kazuma.

The people on the fifth floor of the complex was a stranger problem, one which he felt balanced on the edge of spinning out of control. What was Dr. Clay and Dr. Marcus thinking when they brought those two individuals in? He was also insulted by the way Dr. Clay had spoken about him during that meeting. That son of a b***h had never given him more than a slight chance to explain what he thought about the Field before he’d already made up his mind that Jance was full of s**t, and probably hallucinating. Simply because he couldn’t access the Field himself, meant that it didn’t exist. Even after Jance had shown him the computer models and programs that directly accessed the information that came through the Field. The arrogance of the man was astounding. The problem was made worse by the simple truth that Dr. Marcus couldn’t, or didn’t dare, to stand up to him. Dr. Marcus was by far the more open of the two men, but where he excelled in imagination he lacked in guts.

Jance thought back on the brief battle he’d seen between the gray Gorgon, and Tsang’s samurai projection. He was amazed at how well Tsang understood the Field, and was curious about what the projected self images meant. What was it? How was it an expression of an individual? And how was that expression presented in imagery that everyone else could see?

He shook his head. What bothered him the most, and truly refused to be put aside, was the issue of two comatose individuals presenting images. That was a serious issue. What did it mean when something existed in the Psyche Field attached to a body that had no identifiable brain waves? Particularly after Tsang’s strike, and the Gorgon creature dissipated and the body of the man went into seizure, meaning that the creature was attached to the man’s body and mind, and vice versa. There had to be some deeper current that they lacked the technology to read. But he saw them, both of them brilliant and solid looking, floating above their ‘hosts’, they had to be operating on other wave signatures than just one.

He thought of the beautiful bird, sitting above the girl’s head, waiting for the Gorgon creature to make a move. When it did, the bird defended itself quickly and powerfully. What would have happened to the girl if the bird had been struck and perhaps wounded by the Gorgon? Would it be the same as when Tsang’s samurai struck the Gorgon? We she be sent into seizure if the bird was killed? Would she die?

He needed to study this, and study more in the Field. He was disturbed when Tsang had told him that the fifth floor was hidden. He checked it himself, and the barrier was still there. He examined it as carefully as he could without exciting whatever it was that had attacked Morgan when he’d broken through. To Jance it felt like a wall of ice, he had impressions of things on the other side, but no form. He could roughly gauge where Dr. Marcus was, but he couldn’t see the man’s face. He even tried to project himself into Dr. Marcus’s mind, the same way he had when he was on the docks, but he only got as far as the wall.

The other part, where the girl had floated across the room, baffled him even further. But, it excited him too. He couldn’t be completely certain that it had been the man that had telekinetically moved her, but it felt right to think so until he had more definite proof. But who had caused the action didn’t matter. What did matter, at least to him, was that he’d witnessed (at least vicariously through Tsang’s memory) a Telekinetic event. Parapsychologists the world over would be freaking out if they’d seen what he’d seen, despite the horrible imagery and the obvious malice.

Other aspects and questions waited their turns to be addressed by Jance’s overstimulated mind. But they all seemed to blur together into a mix of unsettled voices churning in a whirlwind in the center of his brain. He needed to find a pace. He couldn’t expect to understand everything at once, especially if he couldn’t even think straight now. He needed to control his apprehension of the upcoming few weeks, but he didn’t have a clue as to how he was going to accomplish this. He wondered if he should enlist the help of Morgan or perhaps even Tsang.

Prioritize, he thought. Simple and straightforward. Prioritize. He eased back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He sat gazing into nothing for many moments. The ceiling offered no help or opinion to his internal questions. He sighed and decided to take a walk around the complex, maybe some sense of direction would form in his head if he paced it out.

Jance got up and left his room.

Something curious and unseen watched him leave, then slid away into the darkness of an in between world. An unseen world, to all but those trained to understand it’s existence.

“So.” Morgan said to Tsang. “You’ve been trained in the medical field, huh?” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “When were you planning on telling me this?”

Tsang sat before Morgan, the light of the room casting strange shadows on his scarred face.

“When I thought it was important to do so.” He replied.

“And that wasn’t when we’d talked earlier?”

“Why would it be? You brought me into this group to kill, not heal. No, I didn’t think it was important. In truth I still don’t think it’s important. And I’m curious to know why you might think it is.”

Morgan looked at him for a long time, gauging his friend with careful eyes. He didn’t want to sound offensive or too direct. But Tsang’s abilities as a medical officer presented some very interesting possibilities that needed to be addressed.

“Ok, I’ll tell you. But you must keep this secret from everyone. I know that it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I don’t want to add unnecessary stress to the group if I can possibly avoid it.” He said. “However, before I tell you everything, I need to ask a couple of questions.” Morgan raised an eyebrow, pausing to see if he’d get Tsang’s permission.

Tsang nodded his head.

“Good.” Morgan said. “So how much medical training did you get?”

“Enough to work in an Emergency Room as a resident physician.” Morgan’s jaw dropped slightly.

“How long did you work for the ER?”

“Not long, only a year or so before my other duties called me to the states.” Tsang went on. “I applied and was accepted into an ER in San Diego, but I never fulfilled the assignment. I just got too busy with my other work. At that time I was working for my brother, and he wanted me all over the western united states cleaning up the Yakuza ranks, and applying pressure to some of his competition. Not enough to do any real harm, but just enough to make people sweat. You know the history, it’s part of my file.”

“Yes that’s true. But what I don’t understand is how the whole thing about the ER doctor slipped through the information system.”

“I can understand.” Tsang said. “But I kept a very low profile. I was trying to make a possible ‘other life’ for myself should I ever need to run. And where I was already good at keeping things low to begin with, virtually no one knew that I was moonlighting as a doctor.”

“What about Med School?” Morgan asked.

“When I was in Japan.” He said.

“No one asked what you were doing with your time? No one had you followed?”

“Few people were stupid enough to ask my business at the time. Even my brother. Those who did ask didn’t live to regret it. I made it plain that my personal business, was exactly that…My personal business. It didn’t take long for them to get the point when the bodies started to surface.”

Morgan understood the perspective. When he was an operative for the CIA, he’d also run into wanting to do something else with his life besides kill people. He’d gone to business school, and done pretty well too. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do, but he enjoyed it. After the CIA found out they were supportive and cheered him on, until they needed him in another country. He’d argued hard. And lost hard. A paper surfaced, magically, inexplicably, that implied he’d plagiarized a final report. With no formal investigation by the business department, or the Dean, he was expelled. His half dream of getting out of the killing business was ruined. They didn’t even reimburse his tuition, the b******s.

“Well Tsang, I am not going to try to capitalize on your training, nor will I stand in the way should you feel it necessary to use your skills. I would however like to see if you would be interested in using your medical talents on something that might be beneficial to all of us.” Morgan was trying to look cheerful, and attempting to be humorous.

“Uh huh.” Tsang said. “Let’s hear the avalanche of bullshit sometime today, Morgan, please? I’ve got better things to do, and the clock is ticking my few hours away far faster than I enjoy.”

Morgan snorted. “Alright,” He said. “No more bullshit.” He laid out his idea quickly and to the point.

Tsang first started to grin…Then broke into a wide smile. “I’m all over it.” He said when Morgan finished.

“Good.” Morgan said. “I am happy that you approve. Start when ever you’d like. But seriously Tsang…Keep this as secret as your Med School. Ok?”

“Yes.” Tsang said. “But I’m gonna need some help.”

“Who?”

“You pick.”

“What?” Morgan asked.

“You heard me. You pick.” Tsang said. Still smiling.

Morgan thought for a long time, easing himself back in his chair.

“Fine.” He said. “Use Jimmy.”

Tsang started to laugh, full and unafraid. After a couple of seconds Morgan joined him.

Jimmy found himself in the gym again, practicing with his new weapons and trying to wrap his mind around Morgan’s change of behavior. Leopards simply do not change their spots, and it bothered him to no end that Morgan had changed his. He liked his leaders a little predictable, if for only to allow him to find their rules and press them to breaking. With Morgan easing up on the military side of his leadership role, and extending into democracy, it left a lot of wiggle room for would be antagonists.

He spun the black bladed machete in fine tight circles, accentuating the flip and arc of the outer most edge giving it maximum effect. The blade was built heavy, so he could cut through flesh and bone easily without it affecting the path of the blade in his hand. He didn’t want it out of his control at any point during combat, and to accomplish this he needed to practice regularly. His problem at the moment was that he was using his left hand to wield the blade, and even though he’d strengthened his wrist and arm for wielding primary weapons, he still felt he was weak there.

His other arm had the straight blade and the claws. They both made him grin just a little in spite of himself. He admitted the weapons weren’t very practical, and probably a little dramatic. But, at least it wasn’t a hammer.

F****n Ed. He thought with a small smile touching his lips.

Still spinning the black machete in his left hand, he raised the gauntlet on his right hand and looked at the fingertips and knuckles. The design was truly vicious, and built for nothing less than a tortured death to whoever fell beneath them. And to leave the appearance of a tortured death as well. Especially with the convulsion causing poison that each was laced with. Unlike Ed’s gloves… Jimmy’s claws were poisoned.  

He felt something enter the room, quiet as a shadow and walking carefully behind him.

He really enjoyed the side effects of the Field, but he couldn’t get used to accessing it the way the others were. It just seemed…risky. He was good in this world. Damn good. One of the best. But out there? He was a f*****g infant.

He let the... something... continue to creep up on him. He didn’t change his behavior, he didn’t look around, he didn’t do anything other than continue on with his practice. But he knew it was there. Just like a spider knows when a fly is close to landing in it’s web. In truth, that’s almost literally what he felt like. A spider. Maybe that’s what he would look like if he was doing the whole ‘representation’ bullshit like Tsang was talking about earlier.

A little closer. Just a little closer.

Something within the back of his mind started to ring…a little warning bell. He didn’t know who the thing was. He’d assumed it was going to be Ed, and hoped it would be Stella or Tsang sneaking up on him in the gym. But the little bell told him that he was wrong and that he was in real danger. He felt the first little adrenaline pump slam into his veins. He felt his heart speed up, and felt the whoosh! of energy course through his abdomen, up the backs of his arms, and across his scalp.

He spun around, dancing in a circle of evasion and defense. The claws and heavy blade of his right hand raised and ready to strike, the machete latched in his left in a reverse grip ready to defend, his stance low and powerful.

Nothing there. But he heard the retreating hiss, as the thing that wasn’t there instantly retreated.

Ok. Now that’s fucked up. He thought, and stood back up.

The room was empty, staring back at him almost. Like it was saying, what?

Jimmy wasn’t a superstitious guy. Never had been. He’d met so many men during his years of war that played with rabbit’s feet, Catholic medals, and four leaf clovers. He’d met a guy back in the gulf that carried a monkey skull with him, that was supposedly given to him by some witch doctor in New Orleans. He took an RPG round to the abdomen, and didn‘t die well. The other guys were all dead too.

But this Field thing had changed something. It wasn’t like the easy…real…things like skill and planning. It was something that sat behind the solid stone walls, and hard cement floors. It encompassed everything beneath the world that he knew existed, and had become proficient at.

The little trip they had all taken through Tsang’s memory banks proved to him, without any doubt, that there was far more to this world than he’d ever believed possible. And when Jimmy had seen the woman floating through the blackness towards the window, he knew that those things in the world that he’d never believed in could be mean. Probably meaner than he could understand.

He sighed heavily. Feeling the adrenaline ebb out of his system slowly. That feeling of being an infant was hard. He didn’t like not knowing. But he hated asking for help. But he knew he was going to have to ask Morgan, to take him by his little boy hand, and lead him to where all the bigger kids were playing. Because he had to play the same games they did, or he’d be left out in the dust. In this case, probably the first one to die.

“F**k sakes.” He said. Then he looked around the empty room. “And f**k you too!”.

He left the gymnasium and headed to Morgan’s office. He didn’t bother changing into his scrubs. He worked so much in the suit that he found the tight fitting feel or the armor far more comfortable than the scrubs anyway. If Morgan didn’t like it, he’d just have to f**k off and deal with it.

When Jimmy left the Gym, the lights turned off automatically, sensing that no one was there anymore. But shortly after he left the room, the lights came back on again.

They shut off.

They came back on.

They shut off.

They came back on.

“You set me up, you little f****r.” Wallace was sitting at a small round table, outside in the pleasant early afternoon. The Captain was sitting across from him at the table, his new partner just to his left. The pretty blonde had left a few minutes ago to respond to a domestic violence call. She looked a little disappointed, but she had hopes of becoming a Detective one day and that meant responding to everything that was called in.

“Easy now Fish…” The Captain began. “It ain’t his fault.”

Wallace looked at the Captain carefully, deciding he was right, but not giving a s**t about it. He wanted to be pissed about being manipulated.

“I don’t give a s**t who’s fault it is. What I want to know, is what the hell do you want from me?” Wallace asked.

The Captain sat back in his chair and put his palms up, he had a little grin on his face. His eyebrows were up and creased in the middle. Picture perfect innocents.

“All I want is for you to look around a little.” He said.

As soon as the blonde had left, the Captain laid on Wallace what he wanted. He wanted to find the people who were responsible for the massive shut down of the East Coast Syndicate. Completely off the books. Wallace didn’t tell him that he already knew where they were, because he knew that it wouldn’t do any good anyway. He’d already decided for himself that it was probably some sort of government thing, that he wanted nothing to do with. Being a detective could suck, and it didn’t pay very well, but it was the only job he had and the only one he was fit for. But what the Captain wanted was to catch whoever was doing the take down in the act, so that they could get somebody red handed and caught by the metro cops, not by the FBI.

“All you want is a promotion.” Wallace said.

“Well there’s that too.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that anybody, smart enough, well funded enough, and mean enough, to slaughter the mob probably wouldn’t bat an eye at killing a piss poor detective and anybody with him? C’mon boss, I know you’re nuts, but I know you’re not stupid.”

The kid was enjoying the conversation between the two senior men. He hated to see guys bow and scrape to the Captain, even though he did it himself. But it was a true joy to see someone call him out like this.

“We both know that you’re not a piss poor detective. Jesus, Fish, where’s your ambition?”

“She took off with just about everything I had, and she still wants more.” Wallace said. “And if your ambition was smart, she’d nail your testicles to the floor and make you beg for your dinner.”

Jason snorted loudly in his rum and coke, and caused some of it to splash up into his eyes. He was trying very hard to maintain his composure and he wasn’t getting along so well with it.

“You keep your goddamn trap shut, pipsqueak, or I’ll stuff that drink right up your a*s.” The Captain said.

“Sorry Cap.” He said, wiping his eyes with a napkin and trying to hide a smile.

“What would it take to con you into this?”

“Not a goddamn thing in this world that you’ve got could con me into it.” Wallace said.

“A raise?” Wallace was quiet for a minute.

You’re too old for this s**t Fish. He thought to himself.

“How much.”

“Ten percent.” The Captain said.

“F**k you, and your ten percent.”

“Fifteen. And a promotion.”

“How the f**k are you gonna pull that off? Never mind. Make it twenty, promotion and a permanent move to Organized Crime and Larceny, and I want access to your condo in Florida.”

“Oh, you’re about a cocksucker aren’t you?”

“I learned from you, and my ex wife.”

The kid had to get up and leave or lose the mouthful of rum and coke all over his expensive suit. His eyes were squinted shut, and he was pinching his nose hard to keep the drink from exploding from his nostrils.

The Captain was quiet for a minute, eyeing Fish from across the table with a calm look of pleasure.

“Ok.” He said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. When we nail these guys, keep my name off the case files. I don’t want nothing to do with the s**t storm that’ll probably cost you and anyone within your zip code their job.”

The captain arched an eyebrow high in curiosity. “Seriously? You don’t want any of the credit?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Deal?” The Captain asked.

“Deal. You silly f*****g maniac. The raise starts today, the promotion too.”

“The promotion will take effect when your done with mister giggles over here.” The Captain pointed a thumb over at Jason, who was still wiping his eyes. “Oh, and by the way. The kid is coming with you on this little hunt.”

Wallace looked over at Jason, then back at the Captain. “F**k off.” He said. “You are not serious are you?”

“Yes I am. If you don’t want the glory, I need someone who does. He fit’s the bill fine.”

“Do I get a promotion too?” Jason asked.

“Yeah.” The Captain said.

“You are now hereby promoted to lead a*s kisser of Detective Wallace Fisher.” Wallace said. “Keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Let’s go get your serial killer wrapped up, and then onto this bullshit.”

“Ah s**t.” Jason said. “Can I finish my drink first?”

“If you don’t I will.” Wallace said.

He looked across the table at the Captain, who winked at him in return.

Wallace shook his head at him and started into the pasta that by now had gone just a little cold. They weren’t playing by the books on this one, and Wallace appreciated that. The Captain was a glory hound, and really did want that promotion. But he knew that Wallace was very careful how he handled his investigations. This wasn’t an investigation so much as it was a way for them both to set up their retirement. Particularly for the Cap. They both knew what would happen if they got an arrest.

The FBI would show up, followed closely by a politically minded official. They would smile sweetly, and make some very nice promises. The FBI would get the credit, and the Captain would get his promotion and a raise in order to keep his mouth shut. Hell he might even walk away with a nice retirement.

The Captain knew about Wallace’s way of finding people. It was a shared frustration for the both of them that it took so much effort to get convictions on people that Wallace was lead to. Wallace had lost faith, and for all intents and purposes given up on the whole game. He had a gift and he knew it, but in this system it was very hard to exercise his gift and expect to keep his job. But this way, where they didn’t have to do anything other than wait for the target to strike again, and just magically be there to make an arrest, solved all the problems of the justice system.

Wallace knew he was weird. He knew that his ability wouldn’t be happy with a sedentary life behind a desk, ordering other detectives around like he knew any better than they did. What he wanted was to maintain his anonymity, so that he could keep working. His gift was the only thing that made sense to him, and to deny it would be throwing away a God given talent. He still liked what he did for a living, even if he couldn’t be as fulfilled because he couldn’t always create a paper trail to his targets. That’s what the courts wanted. That’s what the lawyers wanted. A paper trail.

He didn’t want the Captain’s job. He just wanted to be left alone to go track down crooks, and nail the occasional mobster to the wall. There was always a paper trail on those guys. He didn’t want to have to go back to homicide permanently. He’d had enough looking at bodies.

They both knew that there would be more organized crime. And more thieves to catch. So if this new group that was killing off all the gangsters in the city was no longer able to operate, then Wallace would be back to work investigating the ins and outs of the mob lifestyle in low town, and following his nose. But keeping a low profile.

That was really all that Wallace wanted. To keep working. To let his senses tell him where his next bad guy was, and actually have the chance to put him behind bars.    

They all went back to the precinct and Wallace had a sit down with Jason. The kid was excited about what they would be doing, but they needed to wrap up the paperwork on their serial killer first. No easy trick by any means.

“Can we put this on the backburner for awhile?” Jason asked. “We’re not gonna find anything new looking at these old files. Psyche has done a work up and we have a basic profile. But until he kills again, I think we’re cold.”

Wallace was shaking his head. “Kid, I appreciate your excitement, but if we can figure anything out that might wrap this up it’ll mean a lot to the person that was intended to be next victim.”

Jason nodded once. “I know.” He said. “But what do we do, really, other than clean up the mess when he’s done... hoping to get lucky? and piling up a body of evidence?”

“Why do you think I wanted out of homicide?” Wallace asked back.

“Ah.” Jason said. And stared into a stained coffee cup on the desk in front of him. “Can we hand it over to the FBI?”

“We could try, but I’m not sure if they’re gonna be too interested. I still don’t understand why this guy hasn’t made a bigger name for himself, but then again, there’s a whole bunch of s**t in this world that I don’t understand.” Wallace leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. It seemed to him that his own psychological judgments were right on the surface of his brain, they spilled out from a container too full from years of disappointment. Like a hemorrhagic trying to act normal when the blood spilled from his pores onto the kitchen table.

“Alright kid. Let’s go over it again, then call it a day. I’ll take the files home and see what I can figure out overnight.”

“One thing, before we do that.” Jason paused and looked around really quickly, then fixed Wallace with an intense and curious stare.

“What?” Wallace asked.

“How do you do that?” Real question. No ego or judgment.

“Do what?”

“C’mon Fish. You know what I’m talking about. Out on the street earlier. You were onto something. What were you doing?”

Wallace hung back for a long time. He licked his lips and tried to ignore all the little warning bells that simultaneously went off in his mind. He tried to rationalize past them. What was the harm? He could tell him. It wouldn’t hurt the kid to know what Wallace knew, what little he did know anyway. He wasn’t protective of his talent either, honestly he wished more cops had the talent. But maybe they did? Who was to say? Maybe this kid could do it too, and just needed to be pointed in the right direction. Wallace doubted it, but why not? He sighed again.

“I don’t know exactly what I do. I get into a zone, and my feet start moving. They move me in a certain direction, and when I get to where my target is close they stop. At that point, I’ve either found another dead body, another scene, a place where the target hangs out…something. But sometimes it leads me right to the targets doorstep.” Wallace said.

“Seriously?” The kid asked incredulously eyeing Wallace from across the desk. “What’s going through your mind when you’re walking?”

“Sometimes the case, sometimes nothing. There have been times when I’ve picked up on things that could only have come from the target.” Wallace felt himself pulled to some old homicide cases where he had slipped into the zone, and began to think like the killer he was after. Not a projection, like they teach in psychological profiling. He was certain that he had been actually thinking the killers thoughts. Terrible, dark, oily, squirming in his mind like worms covered in blood. But somehow rational. He felt the excitement, the thrill. The horrifying grisly act, and the way it was presented in the killer’s mind as necessary, justified, maybe even beautiful. Then the satisfaction, the fear, and the anxiety after it was finished.

“Jesus Christ Fish, are you alright?” Jason asked. The look on his face was genuine concern. “You…s**t, man…is that what it feels like?”

“What do you mean?” Wallace asked. The taste in his mouth was like iron filings and rust.

Jason stared at him, wide eyed and a little rim shot... like he’d just found out his pet dog was a Raptor.

“Fish. I put a guy away last year. Triple homicide. Wife, mother, two year old kid. When I interviewed him I knew he was a bad seed, and knew he’d done it. You know the look. He said that they drank all the milk. Total f*****g nut bag. But he had this look…like the embodiment of a horrible disease. S**t I don’t know what I’m saying…but do you know what I mean?” Jason asked, looking apologetic but hopeful.

Wallace nodded. He did know what the kid was talking about. He’d seen it plenty of times, and pictures never seem to do the look justice. But the kid described it well enough…it was like staring into the Black Plague reborn in an individual. Sickly rational, iceberg cold, brutally efficient, and absolutely convinced of their actions. The law didn’t apply to people like that, because it wasn’t their law. To this day Wallace was amazed at how many people were like that in the world.

“So what about it?” Wallace asked, trying to get the taste of rust and copper off the back of his tongue.

“You had it just then. You looked like that guy.” Jason sat back in his chair and his face got a little white.

“Sorry kid.”

“Well, I was curious before. Now I’m not sure I want to know.” Jason was respectful, but spooked.

“Probably for the better kid.” Wallace said.

“I’m just glad you’re on my side, Fish.”

“Me too.” Wallace said. But in his mind he questioned it. Was he? Really?

Wallace looked at the folders in his hand, and decided he didn’t need the kids input to figure out this case.

“I’ll see you around kid.” He said, and got up. He left, the kid watched him go brooding over the strange man that had become his partner.

Later, Jason would talk to the Captain, to see if he’d seen the same look from Fish that he’d had seen earlier.

The Captain nodded his head. “Little spooky.”

“F****n’ A right.” Jason said.

“Listen kid, I know you like Fish. I do too. He’s a damn good cop.” The Captain said. “But don’t cross him. If he gets on a trail you just follow along and keep your weapon loaded.”

“Yes sir…but…Are you serious? Is that how it’s gonna end up?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Something you’ve gotta know. Wallace has a huge heart for people most of the time. But the people he chases down…some of them leave a stain. Just like when we see a bad case that we can’t shake, except worse. He takes it permanent. And it becomes a part of him.” The Captain got a distant look on his face for a moment. He looked tired and old.

“How?” Jason asked. The curiosity getting the better of him again. “I mean, what does he have that none of the rest of us have? And for hell sakes why is he working as a detective in this place? F**k. Why hasn’t the government picked him up yet?”

“You know what kid?” The Captain asked. “I don’t want to know how. Whatever is working in him works, and that’s enough for me.” He was suddenly very irate and trying to control his temper. “I brought you onto this because I trust that you’ll be able to keep a secret and keep your trap shut when IA comes around sniffing, because even if this thing goes perfect they will. But if you can’t keep your nose out and your head down, I will find someone who can, and you’ll work homicide for the rest of your life if I‘m feeling generous.” The Captain said. “As for why he’s still a cop? That’s anyone’s guess. But I do know that he’s been talked to by several different agencies. And why he hasn’t gone on to bigger and better things is even more of a mystery. You’re the wise a*s, you tell me?”

Jason was surprised by the outburst, and he immediately backed off. “Sorry sir. I didn’t mean to pry, and I’m still good for this. I‘m just still shocked. I like things to make sense, and Fish doesn‘t make sense to me. Christ he‘s always bitching about his pay, when he could be pulling six figures working as a PI for f**k sakes.”

“I can understand that. But I know he doesn‘t want to work as a PI, but he‘s never given me a reason why.” The Captain said. “I’d think you were full of s**t if you weren’t shocked. But Jason…” The Captain said, sliding back to the earlier subject. “Where Wallace goes in his head is his business. Because I can guarantee it’s a place we don’t want to even now about. What we’re gonna do is aim him, and pull the trigger. And when he starts flying we are going to have to try to keep up, and pick up as much evidence as we can along the way. We are gonna be busy enough with that to be worrying too damn much about what demons are running riot in his head, you get me? Leave your young a*s out of his business. Period.”

Jason nodded his head.

“Good.” The Captain said. “So he took the case files for the serial killer?”

“Yes.”

“Then that means you got some time to yourself right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I highly suggest, that you pour some lead through your sidearm and make sure your sharp. Go get a drunk on, and make sure you call a taxi. Go take that blonde beat cop out and rail her until she passes out. But before you do, make sure your Will is in good order and up to date. Understood?”

Jason hesitated for a minute, giving the Captain a long stare. Before he could comment the Captain spoke up again.

“Kid, we are garbage men. We pick up the pieces, after all the interesting s**t has already happened. But with Wallace in the lead, we’re gonna be right there in the mix. But it isn’t exactly gonna be legal, and it sure as s**t ain‘t gonna be safe. Is that understood?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Then get the f**k outta here and have some fun.”

“Yes sir.” He said, and watched as the Captain turned around and walked away.

“I am so fucked.” Jason said to himself, and went back to his desk to collect his jacket. He could already taste that Irish Whiskey hitting the back of his throat. In spite of his fear, there was a little smile on his face, and a glimmer in his eye. He didn’t like what the Captain had said about being garbage men, but it didn’t take longer than six months after being on the job for him to understand that simple fact.

He thought about what they were going to be doing, and decided that even running the risk of getting his a*s shot up, being on the leading edge of this investigation would make his entire police career worth it. Hell, it wasn’t even an investigation. It was a hunt. A real one. How the hell could he pass that up?

Tsang sat in the center of his room, facing east. He was naked. A long black samurai sword propped across his knees. He’d oiled it, prayed over it, chanted to it. Now he sat mesmerized by it’s cold logic. Simple and direct. Deadly and efficient.

He thought of his upcoming confrontation with his brother. He thought of the possible outcomes. Then he let all thoughts slip away to nothing. He sat breathing quietly and comfortably.

All men are guided by fate. Decisions serve no purpose. Direction serves no purpose. Every step is accounted for in the realm of spirit. Justification is useless. Guilt is useless. There is only to witness. To watch the form and moving of the hand of something unseen stir the water of the universe. All people are directed to act, just to act. The beauty of it’s motion is perfect.

Life and death is perfect. Pleasure and pain is perfect.

He felt himself in the Field, high above the plain of the earth. He watched the subtle shift of the glowing clouds in their perpetual swirl within his mind of space. Each moving body of steam a reflection of his mind and heart. The culminating chord repeating tones of grace in his chest. At peace. At peace. No room for questions of right or wrong.

Tsang let the meditation dissipate. He came back to the real, with the knowledge of his purpose firmly in his mind.

Revenge isn’t much of a purpose, though the righting of the past crimes held strength in his soul.

All men are guided by fate.

Such statements are great ‘get out of jail free’ cards. Justifications for those distracted by conscience.

All men are guided by fate.

All are blameless. For there is no crime. There is no justification.

But why did he feel the need to justify his revenge? Why did he feel the pain of honor and responsibility?

His brother had tried to kill him…Long, long ago. Tsang still carried the scar. It ran down his face and arched through his chest.

His Yakuza tattoo was severed in two by the ugly run of the old sword wound.

Had he not understood the workings of the living body, he would certainly have died from the cut. But he was not so talented that he could save his wife. His own pain was nothing to seeing her body, nearly cut in two pieces from a single blow.

But the workings of his soul understood that such a cut would never heal. The giant dragon on his chest wrapping its body around his in deeply stained colors of crimson and black, roaring at the gray clouds that surrounded it.

Half dragon.

He is the half dragon. The wounded spirit that would know the taste of his enemies blood.

All men are guided by fate. Was his brother guided by fate when he cut him? And what of his wife? Was he guided by fate when he’d cut Tsang’s wife? He must have been.

Then Tsang wanted revenge against fate. Against life. Against Spirit.

But for all his power and carefulness, all his patience and skill. He could not locate life, spirit, or fate to exact his revenge.

But he could locate his brother.

Jimmy worked in the gym. The thing he’d felt two weeks ago had not returned. Though he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of being watched by something alien, the memory seemed distant.

He loved to feel his muscles moving in their hard and direct circles of power and grace. He enjoyed practicing with his new weapons so much that it was hard for him to stop to rest. Many times Morgan had to come and pull him away from the gym in order to work with him in the Field. Jimmy still didn’t like working in the strange territory, but he’d come to truly appreciate its usefulness.

He found that when he concentrated hard enough, he could transfer himself back to Ireland. He could smell the wet greenness of the land and air out in the country. He’d often hid out in an old burned out stone building, watching the grey waters of the stormy sea, in what felt like a lifetime ago. He could never go home now. But within the far reaching realms of the Field he’d managed to come so much closer than just vague memories. He could smell the air, and feel the soft ground beneath him. Like a still photo, come to life. He could watch the breathing water. Forever if he wanted to. God he missed the smell of the rain.

But he was not ready for that peace yet. He’d men to see. He had things to learn still, but few lessons more important than how to concentrate on the simple exercising of force on those who harmed his family so many years ago.

But Ireland was a long way off. And Jimmy wasn’t certain that he’d ever get the opportunity to  meet the men he really wanted to see. He’d spoken to Morgan about what he needed. And Morgan said he’d do what he could. And from the look on his face, Jimmy believed him.

He was left with the hollowness of his hate, burning bright and mean within him like an internal wound that would always remind him of the path he wished to take. It drove him like an instinctual pilgrimage, like a broken winged bird watching with panic and rage as his fellows flew to their mating grounds thousands of miles across the sea. Left behind, but cursed to live to know it. He took his frustration out on the enemies he was given, and on his body.

He had a mission coming up later in the evening, after Stella and Ed got back. He was going out with Morgan. They were going to work with the Field against some real targets…A couple of old lieutenants trying to sell of an old stash of drugs to some burned out dealers who’d somehow scraped up enough money to afford the skyrocketing prices on Cocaine and Heroine. Stella and Ed’s mission was very similar, another couple of old men quitting retirement, in search of a higher retirement stipend.

Jimmy was surprised at how many of these men there were. Ed had registered almost thirty contacts on his software, old gangsters getting in on the action after Vincent’s death was officially seen as old news. Old men renewing contacts in the hope of becoming the new Godfather.

For some reason Morgan wanted to bring back the drugs. He said they needed to analyze it for a certain chemical property. Jimmy didn’t care, but he knew that packing around a few kilos of blow would be a pain in the a*s. At least they would be driving most of the way, rather than trudging through the sewers again.

Jimmy felt something pulling at the back of his mind, something in the Field.

Hey Jimmy. It was Jance, dressed in his battle suit and armed with his new weapons. His helmet was off, and the lean features of his face stood out very white against the darkness of his suit, and the dimness of the gym. He looked ghostly, or corpse like even. The procedure had finally sucked all the fat off of the kid and left him looking hollow and hard. Just like the rest of them. Even his lips and cheeks looked muscular.

Hello lad. Come for another lesson? Jimmy spun his machete a few times across the front of him. It made a thin buzzing noise in the air.

Practice, actually. He said, and pulled two short swords from the hidden sheathes on his back. They were straight and double edged, and not too long, only reaching about three feet from hilt to tip. He began slowly spinning them in his hands, being careful to manage his timing. Once he got loosened up he spun them faster until they were nothing but twin blurs on either side of his body.

Your getting good with em’. Jimmy said, and sheathed his machete, and retracted the blade on the back of his hand. He stood up straight, and watched as Jance went through several movements that were designed to build strength and flexibility in his forearms. Got anything new? He asked, marveling at how quickly the young man learned. Of course, after the procedure they all learned fast, but martial arts was a muscle knowledge thing, and a little harder to assimilate.

I have a couple of ideas, can you give me a critique? Jance asked.

Aye. Jimmy said, and stood back to get a better view, and to stay out of harm’s way.

Ok. Jance said, and began a series of movements in slow motion, calling out the intended targets with each move.

Head, neck, sternum. Three quick succession strikes, and he spun the left hand blade into a reverse grip. Armpit, femoral artery, lower abdomen, temple. He switched the right hand into a reverse grip and pushed down. Above entrance into the chest cavity. He looked over at Jimmy, signaling that he was finished with the series of moves.

Good. Let me see them faster. He said. Jimmy enjoyed this, it was fun to teach a talented and smart student, who wasn’t arrogant and convinced of his immortality.

Jance reset his body position and slid into the movements. Eight individual shots, all in less than half a second. He executed them so fast and precisely that Jimmy blinked a couple times in surprise. Even the reverse grip of the blade was done so fast that it couldn’t be noticed.

So what do you think? Jance asked expectantly.

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, replaying the moves in his head a few times.

They’re good, and it’s a good sequence to have. Well done lad. A couple of things to watch out for though. He said and walked over to stand beside Jance.

One thing is blade removal and interference. He opened his palm and Jance immediately handed him one of the blades. They were a nice weight, light, and designed for piercing rather than hacking. Hacking was Jimmy’s thing.

If ye thrust on the skull, you may have to watch out for the blade getting stuck in the bone. He demonstrated. That might throw you off on the rest of your sequence. When you thrust make sure you pull back hard to clear the blade, and if it does get stuck come up with an alternative strike.

Jance nodded, watching intently as Jimmy demonstrated the move and adding the sharp pull to the recover.

Same thing for the sternum. It’s a thick bone you’re pushing through, and even if you get in, you may not be able to get back out. Not without the body of the target coming with it anyway. Try this; angle your blade and come in from just to the side of the sternum with the blade held flat. Again, Jimmy demonstrated. You’ll still get to the heart, but minimize the risk of jamming the blade. Also, if you do get jammed on the back of the ribcage, you can use the sternum as a pry point to free the tip.

Jance nodded again. Gotcha, He said. And made a mental note to change the motion.

The only other thing I would mention, is practice the sequence in different orders and in different body positions. It’s very rare that you’re in any on guard position when you strike. Also you may have to deal with multiple opponents. He paused for a moment. Can you do the sequence with both hand dominance?

Jance demonstrated that he could. Both hand dominance was a Jimmy-ism that meant doing the sequence with either hand.

Aye, fantastic. Jimmy said. Now what else ye got?

They worked that way for several minutes. Bouncing ideas off of each other, and practicing the movements until they were instinct.

Jance was comfortable working with Jimmy, and loved his low key style that was based on utility and functionality. He also loved hearing the Irish accent in his mind. Jimmy was normally pretty foul mouthed, but when he was teaching Jance his language cleared up and he slid into a different mode of thought. It was easy to get comfortable listening to his rap, then out of the blue Jimmy would pull out a joke or some rough sarcasm and Jance couldn’t help but fall into laughing fits for a moment. Jimmy kept things light and fun, despite the efficient malevolence of his killing style.

Jance learned a lot from the violent Irishman. How to defend and strike, how to think and act. How to look around and see the threats even without the Field as a guide. Jance was a sponge to Jimmy’s knowledge, and Jimmy didn’t seem to mind teaching him all of his tricks. Occasionally they would spar, with either practice weapons or bare hands. Jance learned a ton from these lessons, and soon became a proficient hand to hand fighter. Jimmy could still toss him around the room whenever he wanted to, but as Jance learned more and more, Jimmy had to use some of his more secret tricks to subdue him. As soon as he did, Jance memorized the move, and practiced it. It didn’t take long for him to assimilate it and use it back on the Irishman, who would invariably devolve into curses at having one of his tricks used against him.

Though they both enjoyed each other’s company, they didn’t really get into each other’s personal pasts. They kept their conversations in the present, and didn’t worry too much about the lives that they had given up.

Although Jance knew very little about Jimmy, he’d developed a greater respect for him than he held for any one of the senior Short Timers. He’d go anywhere the wise cracking Irishman said, and he wouldn’t argue about it. Jance understood that he was learning a new lesson…about himself. He was learning loyalty. He was learning Honor. The feeling a young warrior holds towards his senior teacher creates an almost indestructible bond. He’d always been curious about what that felt like when he’d read it in books, but for many years he didn’t think he’d ever be able to find it. He tried it with old professors, and even with Dr. Clay and Dr. Marcus. Neither of them ever seemed to return the respect that he so wanted to give. Neither of them seemed to have time. Dr. Clay was too arrogant. And Dr. Marcus seemed too brooding and secretive. Either way, Jance felt coldness from the two scientists. But with Jimmy, he felt compelled to do well. Because he felt that Jimmy actually cared to see Jance succeed. He cared to see Jance improve and exceed his expectations. It was strange, but very welcome. In caring for Jances’ progress, Jimmy earned the kind of respect that young soldiers give their commanding officers…respect enough to sacrifice himself for.

Jance knew that Jimmy would never ask it of him. But none the less…It was there. And Jance loved the feel of it. It wasn’t something that could be known from reading a book, or discovered in contemplation or meditation. It had to be learned from caring enough about someone enough to be willing to take a bullet for them.

You know? Stella said, You’d think these guys would wise up. Seriously, don’t they know it’s open season on the syndicate?

Ed watched from a concealed position across the warehouse from Stella. The air was dingy and dust floated down in lazy currents in the dim yellow lighting. Six men stood in the center of the room facing each other. Each was dressed in thousand dollar suits, looking like they’d just stepped out of a board room meeting. They were in deep conversation, exchanging drugs and money, and discussing what to do about the authority hole left by the death of the main syndicate boss.

Oh they know. Ed said. But they’re too busy worrying about their bank accounts to worry about their lives. His suit was in active mode, and he was invisible from them. He knew where Stella was, but he couldn’t see her with his eyes. Only by accessing the Field could he really see her. They were in a good crossfire position, but neither of them were in a hurry to end the night’s hunt. It was nice to be out of the building. There air wasn’t fresh, smelling like old crates and mold, but it was still nice to be out in it.

Did you have something to do with that? Stella asked.

Yep. He responded. It wasn’t a secret that Ed ran several programs that filtered through mountains of information and pinpointed the bank accounts of their syndicate targets. The program would essentially freeze the money where it was, and make it inaccessible to anyone trying to manipulate it. It was sneaky, but not too sneaky. For anyone who was looking, it would look like a government thing. And since so many of the agencies watching the accounts didn’t necessarily talk openly with each other, it was easy to make them believe that either the DEA, or the CIA, or even the FBI had ordered a freeze on the money. Ed could drain the accounts to nothing if he wanted to, but he was trying to flush the dealers out, not make them skip country.

Ed knew for a fact that most of the syndicate bosses held onto a fairly large stash of real money, as well as large stashes of drugs, as ‘insurance’ against what was happening now.

The men that Stella and Ed had been sent to dispatch tonight were two upper level former lieutenants that had been smart enough to keep their heads down when the heat started to turn up on Vincent. Now that he was dead, they’d come back out of hiding to see if they could capitalize on the inflated price of street drugs. They were both in their early sixties, and had been retired until about a week ago when he’d frozen their U.S. based accounts and their offshore accounts. They hadn’t been good little mobster’s and saved some ‘just in case’ money. They’d opted to keep some drugs on hand to sell off quickly.

Oops.

Your turn Ed. Stella said. I don’t want to take all the fun. She’d dispatched a couple of guards hanging outside the door about five minutes ago.

He was in the shadows, deciding how to take the men on. They were probably twenty yards away, and he’d have to sprint to get to them without them taking a shot. He wasn’t worried about being damaged, but he didn’t want to draw any undue attention to the mission tonight. They were about ten miles away from the complex, and they’d driven there. He didn’t want anything complicating the ride home, especially since they’d been ordered to retrieve the drugs.

Distract them for me would ya?

F**k off. Stella said. I don’t feel like getting shot at tonight.

Ed rolled his eyes. Shoot the lights out girl, damn. It’s not like I’m asking you to jump out there and do a strip tease for Christ sakes.

Hmph. Stella replied, noting the subtle jab he gave her referring to when she changed into her scrubs in front of him as a way to make him nervous. You liked it and you know it, you big jock. She said. She pulled her ring gun with a whip crack of speed and put three rounds into the light hanging high above the bosses heads. No one heard the tiny clicks as the rings were fired, but the light shattered into brilliant yellow sparks that flew across the room like a firework. The flare caused Ed’s nano’s to reset, and one of the guards saw him early. Ed knew that they were all packing automatic weapons, and as he bolted from his hiding spot he watched the guard raise his weapon.

S**t. Ed said, just as the guard started firing. Things started moving very fast at that point.

Ed saw little puffs of disturbed dust in front of him as he ran towards the group of men. The guard was firing from the hip, and although he wasn’t accurate, Ed could feel bullet and cement fragments striking his shins and feet. He brought a forearm up in front of his eyes, he couldn‘t see anything but the muzzle flash from the gun anyway. The guard was adjusting his aim, and bringing the spray upward. Ed could feel the slugs passing around him, and feel concussive wave of energy from each discharged shell. It was like a strobe accompanied by the ringing pop-pop-pop of machine gun fire.

Ed felt the first slug strike him in the thigh. What the f**k? He thought, and felt another hit him to the left of his belly button. They felt like hot little bee stings, searing his flesh inside his armor. Instinctively he dove to the left and rolled away. He was too close to them to run away, he had to keep the moving forward. Another bee sting to his left bicep, and another off his left hip. He pulled his gun and started returning fire automatically realizing that his armor wasn’t protecting him against the barrage of bullets coming at him.

Another guard was firing now. Ed could hear the difference between the sounds of the guns.

Something smacked the side of his head hard, and his vision blurred into a gray cloud. His ears rang and spots like circling fireflies danced in his dimming vision. That’s it. He thought. He felt his left shoulder hit the ground hard, just before he passed out. The dim gray went to deep black.

Stella saw sparks flying from within Ed’s nano cloud as the bullets hit their target. It wasn’t until she saw, and felt, him reacting in pain that she knew something was wrong. He rolled away, very quickly one direction then sprinted towards the group of men again. He’d pulled his ring gun and fired several shots into the group of men. One man on the right side put a hand up to his neck. The other guard started firing, and Stella saw a huge spray of sparks fly from Ed’s helmet, and he went down hard.

Jesus, No! She thought and pulled both of her ring guns. She fired very quickly at the two guards, and saw the rings obliterate the suits they wore. But the men didn’t go down. They were wearing body armor. The rings didn’t have the umph to penetrate. But the guard that Ed had shot in the neck was down and in severe seizure. His lips pulled back from his teeth and his arms contorted behind him in twisted convulsing jerks.

She took a quick breath to settle her popping nerves. The two guards were rounding their weapons on her, still firing. They were also ducking down and trying to run away. The two older men in business suits had dropped to the floor and crouched there, arms over their heads.

Stella heard the slugs slapping into the wall behind her and the boxes next to her.

She aimed very carefully, and squeezed off several rounds in quick order at the grimacing faces of the guards firing their weapons, one that stood there like a dip s**t, and the one on the floor in convulsion. Each ring found it’s mark, their heads jerked with the impact of the deadly little circles. She felt a heavy punch to her shoulder.

She screamed, and stumbled backwards.  

Ed was swimming in a strange vision. He stood naked, floating in dark gray clouds. It was cold where he was and wind ripped into his flesh. He couldn’t see well, the air was dense with what looked like smoke. Something touched his ankle. It was wet and slimy. He looked down between his feet. The air was gray turning to black, wrapping around him in a tornado swirl. Something huge was down there, reaching up. He saw strange shimmering eyes, and what looked like thick whiskers jutting forward out of the dark. The thing attached to his leg was deep red, flowing porous skin covered in a slime that shimmered despite the darkness. He felt an electric current run up his leg like being hit by a taser.

In the vision he screamed. The tentacle was roping up and around his leg, squeezing with an iron grip. It was pulling him down. He saw shiny slime covered black teeth set in crimson jaws that looked like bug mandibles. It could swallow him whole if it wanted to, and the space between his foot and the creatures open maw was very close. He struggled with the wrapping tentacle, digging his panicked fingernails into it and ripping at his own flesh as well.

A thick clacking noise came from it’s throat, like the clicking of huge teeth. The sound echoed around him from unseen walls through the wind. He dug harder, digging deep trenches of skin out of his leg.

A golden beam of pure energy hammered into the thing from somewhere above him. He heard the clacking turn into a roar. The tentacle squeezed hard enough to break bone and then released him.

You’re not finished yet Edward.

He felt the voice, that somehow seemed very familiar to him, deep inside his head. It was a voice, but somehow many voices. They echoed, each wave of sound bringing a further calm.

You must stay away from this place. It has your taste. Do not sleep.

The voice was tender, but insistent. He believed it.

You or any of your friends. It said. Do not lose consciousness again.

The whirlwind of gray clouds stopped. The creature was gone. Then everything ripped away from him like falling from existence in a lightning speed yank of movement.