Windshield wipers bat away snow. Mystery isn’t driving fast. She can’t; giant snowflakes are pouring from the sky, and all the cars around her move at a cautious crawl. The super heroine’s fingers drum on her steering wheel as she turns onto an exit.
On the radio, her voice is counseling a caller. Cheating girlfriend, or so he’d thought. Boring. The producer had saved it since it was the kind of thing people liked to listen too, put it on the tape. She wishes he’d play music.
She’s on Talos Island again. The world is an odd amber outside her car window as streetlamps reflect off new snow. Tall buildings shield the streets a bit, and the asphalt is wet but not yet slippery. She heads for the north shore of the island. Independence Port is the main harbor in Paragon City but ships dock along the TI waterfront too. She’s looking for an old storage area near the marina. A patrol car had sighted the van there. Lights had been burning where they shouldn’t have been.
Mystery parks in a small lot overlooking the bay. City lights reflect off black water. She can see the storage facility. It’d once been used to house pleasure craft during the winter. The police weren’t quite sure who owned it now. It was probably supposed to be empty.
It was another good choice of hideout, Mystery decides. Nebulous ownership, uncertain status, but not completely abandoned. Room for several people in what used to be the office/repair shop.
As she watches, a man emerges from the repair shop. She cannot tell if he’s armed; too far away. He lights a cigarette, smokes it with a certain haste. The super heroine stretches her senses. She feels impatience, need, discomfort balanced by bliss as the nicotine hits the man’s senses. His heart is mostly greed and discipline; uncomfortable as he is, he glances toward his buddies on guard duty.
Mystery smiles; the man discards his cigarette and walks back inside. She can’t see the guards, but knowing they’re there helps. She feels them, distantly for she cannot see them and has no emotional connection. One watching the gate, the fence facing the street. One, sure enough, watching the bay. Both have a confidence Mystery associates with carrying a weapon.
She can’t see either of them. That’s to be expected of Colonel Einhorn’s men.
She stuffs her hands in her coat pockets. She can’t tell for certain that they are the Colonel’s men. They aren’t part of her cadre, her core of real followers. There’s a lack of something, the odd loyalty Wilhelmina inspires. The Colonel, however, isn’t above hiring outside help. These fellows do feel like hired help.
The flight box hums. Mystery takes to the air. She stays at a decent altitude for about a third of the trip across the bay. The snow would conceal her. The shop looms larger, and she drops so low she’s skimming the wave tops. She shivers deeply, hair going damp from salt spray. She can still feel the guard. She’s sure he’s looked at her, but not seen. Just in case, she encourages his urge to search high.
Her feet hit the ground next to a concrete boat ramp. Her clothes are sodden. She tries to ignore it, runs and ducks behind some tarp-covered equipment. The guard hears something, turns to look.
She almost makes him feel safe, almost makes him ignore what was probably a cat or something. She doesn’t. He’ll be a threat as long as he’s around to do his job. Boots crunch on snow, drawing closer to the super heroine.
The guard comes ‘round the equipment. He’s about to turn and look at her. She moves a little faster, slipping behind him. He senses her body heat, her presence, but doesn’t turn. She’s making the sensations feel very good on this cold night. He gasps. She whispers in his ear. He collapses.
He’s not a small man. He hit’s the ground, already snoring lightly. His gun clatters on concrete. There’s a spike of not-quite-alarm from across the little boatyard.
Mystery closes her eyes. She feels suspicion. She sends out calm. Lazy calm.
Slow footsteps, getting louder. She can’t see the other guard. The snow is heavy now. She grabs her sleeping victim by the wrists, pulls him, with a little telekinetic assistance, behind the pile of equipment. The footsteps are much closer. Just enough time to grab the sleeping man’s gun, hide it too.
She never thinks of using it.
A shadow is moving behind her hiding spot. Suspicion is growing despite the artificial calm. The conscious guard is looking for his friend. He can’t find him. Worry. Metal on metal as a round is chambered.
The super heroine peeks out of her sanctuary. The guard has his gun in a low ready. His worry is peaking. He’s about to call for help.
You don’t need help. She can’t touch him, but when she speaks, he feels…caressed. Warm. As if all is well.
He freezes, as his friend had. Utter surprise at sudden pleasure.
How many inside?
He’s disciplined. He’s never been shown ways to defend his own mind, but he’s a gifted amateur. He can’t answer, shouldn’t answer, won’t answer. He’s aware of his gun and his radio. He doesn’t get past that…Mystery puts some force behind another suggestion. The guard joins his friend in slumber.
Both men are wearing radios. They’ll be expected to check in soon. Every few minutes. She doesn’t run for the lit-up building. That’d be foolish. She stays low, ducking behind this and that, keeping low, moving at a fast walk. She can hear noises from the old workshop. A television or a radio. Talking.
The front door is out. Probably too many people, too many guns, in the front room. Can’t take that chance. There are windows. She half-jogs over to one, catching a glimpse of her reflection: soggy clothes, wet, dripping hair, intent expression.
She peeks in the window. No lights in there. There’s probably an alarm on it. If there hadn’t been before, the Colonel would’ve installed one. She’s probably on camera right now, but if anyone’s noticed her, she can’t feel them. She picks up a piece of urban refuse, hurls it through the window.
Sure enough, there’s an alarm. Surprised voices inside the old workshop. Guns being primed. Mystery flattens herself against the side of the building, peeks into the broken window. She can hear the front door opening, excited radio calls. She has seconds. What if they don’t do what she expects?
One person does. A man, weapon at the ready, flows into the broken window room. He has a split second, a tiny chance to notice her before she acts. Luck isn’t with him today. A hard mental shove sends him flying back, into a wall. He has a partner, right behind him, who gets a dose of the same. The groggy men are blinking, reaching for weapons. Mystery’s already inside.
They’re already afraid. She makes it worse. Makes them feel small, inconsequential. Beneath her notice. Certainly beneath being able to hurt her. They stare at her in fearful worship. She tells them to sleep.
They do.
There’s a not-so-distant cry. A warning. Someone is yelling that ‘she’ is in the building already. Mystery charges through the door. There’s a woman in the main area, rising from a crude bank of monitors. Her pistol is coming up. The super heroine throws herself to one side. The pistol cracks three time. A sound like angry hornets as the bullets zip by.
Mystery makes noise. Not real noise. A voiceless scream. The pain is enough that her attacker drops her pistol, fingers seizing temples. A telekinetic shove puts the gunwoman on the floor.
The superheroine ducks low, conscious of the people outside. She flips a light switch. In the dark she had the advantage; her eyes aren’t as important as her more exotic sense. The gunwoman is groaning, starting to rise. She sees Mystery, scrambles for an unseen weapon. Then she goes to sleep.
Mystery frowns. Her attacker isn’t the woman she’s looking for.
Glass shatters. Constant ‘zips’ as bullets rip by. Something sharp tears into the superheroine’s bicep, and she cries out. She drops, flattening herself against the floor. Bits of plywood rain down on her as projectiles tear through the exterior wall. Then there’s quiet, the distant sound of someone reloading a weapon.
Mystery opens her senses. Determination and fear outside. Sudden resolve. They’re about to try something. Another barrage of lead tears in from outside. At the front door, she feels a need to kill.
The door busts open, a guard with a machine gun charging through. He’s a step inside when the door flies back in his face, hard. He falls backwards, yelping in surprise. Gunfire from outside ceases again. Mystery pushes herself up, sprints for the door. One man is reloading a weapon. Another is on the ground bleeding from the nose. Mystery ‘screams’ again. They scream in a more traditional fashion. Weapons are forgotten. In a moment of multitasking, she tells them if they sleep, the pain will stop.
Their cries cease, replaced by slumber.
The superheroine ducks back inside. She listens for more people, more threats. Nothing but dream-images from a bunch of sleeping thugs. She takes a breath, gives her heart a moment to slow. There’s a sudden awareness of pain. She’s bleeding from the shoulder, pretty heavily.
Wincing, she removes a four-inch long piece of wood from her shoulder. Shrapnel, not a bullet. She concentrates on the wound It begins to close. It’s not an instant process, but it doesn’t take long. She can’t fix her bloody sweater so easily. That’ll wait.
She disarms her unconscious opponents, collects the guns in safe place. She drags the men outside into warmer areas. The police will be here soon, and she needs to ask questions, but she can’t leave people lying in the snow.
Which one to ask? She gazes at her collection of dozing mercenaries.
The woman, she decides.
Topic: Call-In (Read 9845 times)