The Light Fades Away (Retired Superheros)

[foodforpigs]

John guessed that there was a gun inside of that box, and hoped there was. He allowed the contents to take the Uncertainty Principle, of being both a gun and not a gun at the same time, by resisting the urge to peek inside the wooden box with the broken lock. It didn't matter the unfair nature that Nightwatch was now bound to a wheelchair when it came to using a gun, and wondered what kind of firepower a gunshop would allow two old men. He knew, however, that pretty much everything relied on Sacrifice alone. Whatever Demon that Sacrifice was bound to probably wouldn't have allowed its servant to have any ailment, and magic would not decay with age.

The hospital staff went about their business as normal, actively ignoring the fact that a patient was being wheeled in a section he wasn't supposed to be in, by a complete stranger. John was more assured that Mr. Baker was correct in his plan assessment; Scott could never be a compliant prisoner, and it worked completely to his advantage. Perhaps they really did despise Mr. Baker on a personal level, or perhaps they simply could not be assed anymore to intervene in whatever Mr. Baker was involved in, always being more trouble than it was worth. It was definitely a less dramatic rescue than the prison camp. John simply smiled and nodded at the staff, saying his unanswered 'how do you dos?', totally playing off the fact that, strictly speaking, he was abducting Scott Baker. If they knew that was his plan all along, they might have even cheered him on and helped Scott through the door, and get him out of their lives forever. The only better alternative to the staff would be a planned murder. The unanswered guest form was in John Wakefield's pocket, easily forgotten.

Having exited the same alternate doors that Mr. Wakefield stumbled through when he first arrived at the hospital, he made his way to his 1967 Mercury Cougar. Independence Day was starting to blossom despite the terrible tragedies that enveloped it; the warm sun's rays and the cool, crisp air of a closing noonday draft made the weather 'perfect', a quantifier rarely used by Wakefield. He gladly forgot the route from Mr. Baker's prison room to the exit, wheeling him carefully next to the passenger side of the car. Opening the door, Mr. Wakefield offered the most dignity he could to Mr. Baker when it came to helping him into the cushy seat which John imagined felt a 'million bajillion' times better than the hospital wheelchair. There was a handle at the top of the door opening for Scott to hoist himself up with, and while he did so, John used his arms and whatever gravity field he had left to muster to make the physical task a bit easier for the both of them. After that was done, John got to folding the wheelchair up efficiently enough; it was a trivially simple machine, after all, and learned quickly which component did what, before shoving it in one side of the back seat.

Finally, John got into the driver's seat and sat there, looking blankly ahead, as though in quiet, befuddled contemplation. It looked as though his mind simply could not wrap its mind around the shock at how flippantly easy the operation had been, but in actuality, he was already thinking about that compounded with the next step that had to be done: getting to Sacrifice's house. Where was it, again? He tried drawing a map in his mind by tracing lines in the air with his index finger and moving his mouth to form soundless words. It might have seemed like he was doing much more complex calculations that a non-egghead wouldn't understand, but really all he was trying to do was conjure a street name through basic divination. He took a deep breath and nodded. Relative location, that was the ticket for sure! Wasting no more time, John shifted it into high gear and started slowly making his way out of the parking lot. There was the threshold between the lot and the outside world. As soon as they crossed the breach, Mr. Wakefield sped down the highway at top speed. He had the distinct feeling that he would have to save Nuclear Overdrive for when it truly was needed.

 

[Kazama]

Mr. Baker almost couldn't believe it. He was out, oh man, was he out. As soon as he was in the car and driving away, he gave the shrinking hospital behind him the finger. For all those countless hours of boredom and the patronizing dicks who caused it. He tried to convince his face to betray his growing feelings of excitement, but he couldn't help grinning a bit here and there. He didn't even mind that John helped him into the car. That hospital had given him the gift of hating people who treat him like a big helpless baby; but he didn't bother reprimand John for it, the guy was getting him out the fucking hospital. Maybe later. Right now, his rear end was too concerned with the change of scenery.

"I can't tell you how much my ass missed sitting on padded seats."

Scott leaned back and sighed. John was in the driver's seat doing something with his finger, but Scott didn't really care. Probably something math related, calculating the air pressure in the car or something. Mr. Baker just closed his eyes and let the seat take him to padded heaven for now. It felt kind of good to see that John was still weird.

Once they hit the highway, the pace changed a little. Mr. Baker's mouth dropped the small grin so that it could grit its teeth. As soon as the car went above 20 miles an hour, Mr. Baker reached for the handle above the door and gripped it tightly, even with the seat belt. After almost a decade of either moving incredibly slowly, or watching things move incredibly slowly, being in a speeding car got the jump on him. He didn't hate it, but he didn't like the idea of ending his new adventure as an accident report on the evening news.

"Jesus Christ, John. I wanna get to Sacrifice quickly too, but fuckin' take it easy."

He couldn't help noticing a sign rip past them, its painted face declaring the speed limit was a lot slower than what they were doing. At least, that's what it looked like before it was several yards away and getting smaller. Being at the mercy of John and a speeding machine was not a feeling Mr. Baker was enjoying.

"At least tell me Sacrifice is nearby."

 

[foodforpigs]

John decelerated with a suppressed sigh; for a moment, he looked like a puffer fish as his cheeks filled with breath before being quickly released. It wasn't from agitation, but Scott's reaction was another bitter reminder that he had forgotten so much. He had taken the memory of Impulse and tried to make it his own and simply be in the moment, but he couldn't escape reality. He had forgotten about streets having street limits. He had forgotten that Scott Baker wouldn't have experienced speeds even remotely like this for an eternity. Most importantly, however, he had forgotten which landmark he was looking for in order to find Sacrifice's house. It was this whole situation exposed in a metaphor, laid out clearly in his mind though the murky wastes of fading memories surrounded it like a moat to enclose and trap him. He was eagerly rushing towards nothing, as though the speed of reaching that destination would somehow make it all better. All he had left was to move forward, because the past was slipping from his mind like sand from a shattered hourglass. The great Dr. Nucleus that was, was but a pleasant after-image that sometimes appeared on a comic book page or on television. Afterimages fade away.

"He has a nice house just outside the city limits. It makes sense that he'd want to get away from it all and be with his wife, you know?"

He was no hero, but he refused to give up any of his skills without a fight. He reflected that he was driving amazingly well before, ignoring the fact that he was speeding. Now that he was slowed down, he could feel the anxiety roil in his chest like terrible heartburn, as he was now tasked to find that landmark. His hands gripped tightly around the wheel; otherwise they would be shaking for Scott to see. They passed a billboard for the new Freedom Five. It was covering what he had been looking for in his mind's eye. It was a cross. It was of sacrifice retold through that ancient symbol and made manifest as John's guiding force. The cross was on the steeple of the country church.

"There." John said, with elation in his voice. "That's where Sacrifice got married."

 

[Chrome]

The car purred as it entered Edric Estates, a small neighborhood with an ornate catholic church at it's entrance.

Sacrifice got married at that church and John signaled and turned right at the appropriate speed. The homes all had black iron post fencing with gates entering a variety of yards, two to three stories tall with some very immaculate windows. John continued to go the on his path, seemingly guided by his past experiencing this same road. One house, the house John stopped at, was definitely the house he visited plenty of times when Ridley and John used to chat about the good times.


Nightwatch and Sacrifice had their own goals in life, they respected eachother as teammates, but Sacrifice found it difficult to get close to anyone until he met Duke. And the years after the end of Remnant; made Sacrifice less talkative.


The home was two stories with a very basic window pattern; four on the front in a square formation. The walls we're a very coarse grained tan with blackend oak framing the outside, a handsome home, for a pair of normal newly weds. The gate was the same black iron post fencing as the other's with a lawn that could really use a mow. Smoke is coming out of the chimney so someone must be home.

The Mercury Cougar started to roll forward as John remembered he needed to put his car in park.

 

[Kazama]

"So this is the place?"

Mr. Baker scoped the house up and down. Decent sized house. Sort of Dutch colonial with a slight touch of neoclassical highlighting. An unlikely skill that an infiltrator learns is architecture. If you're moving in and out of buildings trying to make less noise than a draft, you need to know the building. Scott had performed this exercise on the hospital he had lived in a thousand times, but Sacrifice's home was new meat. Mr. Baker didn't do this consciously, but the back of his mind unsettled the cobwebs and the old gears began to work like they used to. Scott unconsciously took note of possible entry points, choke points, places to hide, possible high traffic routes, and areas with both easy and difficult visibility, even places to hide a body if the need came up. His powers helped and even from the car, he could get a slight feel for the house's interior. Someone was home. Mr. Baker felt this, soaked up all this new information like a sponge, and he couldn't quite place his finger on why, but it felt good.

"Goddamn, Sacrifice's been livin' it up, huh? Alright, help me with that shitty wheelchair." Mr. Baker began to undue his seat belt, "And just set it up by my door. I can get back on the damn thing just fine on my own."

While he waited for his mobile throne, he studied the house a little more. Sacrifice had been living pretty damn close this whole time. They hadn't even been on the road for an hour and yet here he was. Living in a nice house in a nice neighborhood, with his nice fucking lawn and a nice fucking life. It bit Scott a little that he'd been so close by and yet the two of them had ended up in such different situations. Mr. Baker didn't want to admit it anyone, least of all himself, but deep down, there was a bit of envy present. Scott had gone from one sad mess to the next, but here was Sacrifice, living in a nice and warm little home. A few scattered memories fought their way up into Scott's present mind and they regurgitated a little of the humiliation and anger that comes with rejecting everything one used to stand for. Sacrifice had moved on to a green lawn and Scott hadn't even been able to live in the U.S. for years, not with all the superhero buzz that the public constantly vomited onto newspapers and into television sets. The resurfaced memories tapped on the inside of Baker's skull a little harder. The old man balled his fist up.

The car door beside Mr. Baker opened. John was almost done setting up the chair. The sound of the door and John working with the chair pulled Mr. Baker out of his little trance and prevented him from going too deep into that hole for his own good. The thoughts and feelings slithered back into their holes, but he still felt a little irritated. He inhaled and after his chest fell with an exhale, he gazed up and down the windows again. His brain jotted down an easy path to the roof from the side of the house. That made him feel better and it helped remind him he was in the present, not the past. He asked,

"So are we just gonna stand here? Sac's home." He finished moving himself onto the chair by sliding into it from the car seat, "I can feel it."

 

[foodforpigs]

John didn't pick up on the irony that a wheelchair bound man talked about standing around; instead his expression didn't change at all, and he allowed Scott to help himself into his own wheelchair. Mr. Baker's strength was apparent as his mind appeared somewhere else, hoisting his entire mass onto the adjacent chair as though it was a trivial task, which it certainly wasn't. Although he couldn't produce any meaningful physics calculations anymore, John felt confident in asserting that, if Scott Baker wanted to kill another person, he could accomplish it without question. It didn't matter if Scott was in a wheelchair, or how ugly the kill was. It would most certainly involve using the wheelchair as a weapon. If there was something Mr. Baker had in spades was sheer resourcefulness and the mind to commit to exactly what needed to be done in a situation. Mr. Wakefield didn't know what Mr. Baker could be thinking other than, perhaps, that he shared the same anxiety in meeting Sacrifice again after all this time. Strangers gathering over a murder still felt like a very surreal thing to John. In one morning, that plastic peace was finally discovered to be covering their mouths, ready at any moment to choke them all to death. Impulse was dead.

Impulse? No, it's Dragon. It always was just Dragon since that time. Focus.


"It's exactly like I remember." said Mr. Wakefield soberly. "It's like this house never aged at all."
Unlike the two, that is. The house looked immaculate, as though part of a dream landscape where no pain touched it. He started to push Mr. Baker's wheelchair up the incline of the cobblestone walkway to the front door.

"Alright. Here goes everything." he said, pretty much to himself.
John pressed on the doorbell. He expected it to chime church bells, like it had when it was first built; he hoped that it did. It would be his final affirmation that this was indeed the place, and that he wasn't insane after all.

 

[Chrome]

In the basement of 112 Edric Way, Harley sat at his operating table. He was a meth surgeon, or at least, he thought of himself that way. Making meth may be easy enough to do at the start, if you want the cloudy shit. Harly's meth was crystal clear and all the guys know it too. He had just finished adding the red phosphorus and filtered out the remaining acid, he then neutralized his masterpiece by adding his special lye solution.

Leon slept on the couch in the basement, No one goes around this neighborhood he used to always say when he first picked it out. Carlos and Markus drop Harley and Leon every morning, they make their batch, change the plastic sheeting inside the house, and go to the Biker bar 'Magic Carpet'. The Iron Eagles are a bunch of Vietnam vets, Ex law enforcement, and dudes who live to ride. Free to fly.

Leon didn't wake up when the doorbell rang.

Harley stepped out of his office and closed the door before removing his gas mask, quickly he sprayed himself with a can of air freshener from the bathroom and put on his black "ACDC" hoodie he left near the front door of the place. He thought to himself, Leon you lazy piece of horse shit, if this is another gang trying to pull a raid, i'm going to let them kill you.

He turned the handle and saw two old looking men, one standing; the other in a wheelchair. He squinted at the men as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, which deflected off of his smooth bald head. He placed his left hand onto his gut and as he stepped outside he closed the door with his right.

"Happy 4th of July! You both look like you fought for your country" he said smiling with with a raspy low tone. Eyeing them both with a serious look on his face he said "What can I do for ya?"

 

[Kazama]

Mr. Baker was stunned. He looked at this... weirdo and then at John, then at the weirdo again. He didn't know what he had been expecting. Sacrifice in a bathrobe, maybe a wife or something; hell even Sacrifice's mother telling them that he couldn't come out and play would have been a little more well received. Who was the hell was this junkie?

"Who the fuck are you?" Scott rephrased the question in mind. Scott turned in his chair and asked John, "Who the fuck is this guy?"

This bald guy didn't look like someone Sacrifice would live with. He didn't even look like he could afford to live in a house like this. He looked more like one of the punks Scott used to throw around when he was younger.

"Are you sure we have the right house?" He asked John.

Asking John if he was sure about something felt weird. John never made a mistake. Ever. Back then, anything John said to do was usually obeyed, no matter how weird. If he told Scott to pull the green wire, he pulled the green wire. If he told Scott to push the big black box into a pool of water, he pushed the big black box into a pool of water. If he told Scott to throw a toaster into a quantum disco-something-whatever, he threw the goddamn toaster into the quantum disco-something-whatever. The team back then had come to understand this simple fact of life, 'John knows, we don't; and if we ask him to explain, we'll be here all day.' Now Mr. Baker was asking John if he was sure that this was the right house. It felt weirder than weird. It felt wrong.

 

[foodforpigs]

As soon as John's ears heard the buzzer instead of the familiar bells as the doorbell, his instinct told him that something about this situation was wrong. It was though the dream house had turned into a prison, and he was signalling security to open the doors. Mr. Wakefield was at a loss for words as Scott voiced confusion for the both of them. He eased into a comfort zone, however, as the man seemed to hold respect for the ex-military as well as science, wearing a shirt that recognized the duality of alternating current and direct current, AC/DC.

"Happy Fourth of July!" John returned with high enthusiasm. "You look like you've been through the grinder yourself. 'Nam, right?" He was about to go full blown overboard about sharing war experiences with this complete stranger, but refocused. "We've been looking for one of our old World War II comrades, ..."

Sacrifice. What was his real name? Pogo stick on a trampoline! What the gumdrops is his real name again?!

"Do you know who used to live in this house before you? Any help you could offer us would be greatly appreciated. It being Independence Day and all, we'd thought we'd gather the vets from our squad for a reunion."

 

[Chrome]

Harly laughed when John asked if he went to Veitnam. HAHAHAHA as if I would go to that deathtrap he thought, Harly is all for America, but he has talked to a lot of vets from that war, once the Vietnamese got the support of some russian supes (super powered people slang), the real war became a bloodbath.

"Names Harly" he said looking down at the man in the wheelchair, as standing man said that they fought in WW2 HOLY FUCK! THESE GUYS FOUGHT ALONGSIDE DUKE, Probably... got to see the man at least.. still... wow.

"Pleasure to meet you both!" Harly exclaimed in his rasp. "World War 2 vets you say?" he paused "I do recall an older woman who was living here before we purchased the house talking about her ex-husband, they must have gotten divorced or something" Harly shrugged.

"Wish I could help you heroes some more, but that's really all I know" Harly looked at the ground and thought hard about a solution to these old dudes finding their old friend... I KNOW.

"You should try pulling up your friend's name in the police database or the public library, I'm sure they would be more than happy to help reunite a couple war friends from World War 2"

Harly needed to get back to his batch...

"Have a great day Sirs, hope you find your friend, have a pint for Duke for me"

His bald head glinted as he turned and headed for the door, he opened the door and closed the door behind him. He locked the door and watched the peep-hole as he waited for the two old men to leave the house so he can continue his cooking.

Leon is still fast asleep, If your not awake by the time its your turn to 'step on' the batch im sticking a firecracker in your ass crack, lazy fuck.

 

[Kazama]

Mr. Baker turned his wheelchair around and started to head back to the car. If he had been even slightly irritated before, then he was definitely in a bad mood now. He didn't fancy going on a wild goose chase trying to track down a former member of Freedom Squad.

"Great. Just fucking great. So now what?"

He spun the chair around once he was next to the vehicle's passenger door.

"Well, John? You're the genius scientist, what the hell are we supposed to do now?"

If he had the contacts he'd had back in the day, finding Sacrifice would have been a cinch. He'd known guys who could find things once he'd gotten himself connected here and there, but now... hell he didn't even know if these guys were even alive let alone willing to talk to a super hero almost half a century past his prime. The only one he could really count on right now was the elderly Doctor Nucleus and even this wasn't working out so well.

"John, we need leads. Do you know anyone who can find Sacrifice?"

If John didn't have anyone, then Mr. Baker would suggest his old contacts, but not if there was another way. He didn't want to present a lead that was almost guaranteed to take them to a dead end.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

New York - Over 50 years ago.

Lou's was a bar set up on the outskirts of the business district. While the bar itself was quiet most of the time, police had found evidence that it was connected to the mob more than once. Each instance had quickly been covered up by a mixture of bribery and coercion. The bar was owned by a man named Louis Santoro, otherwise known as "Lou". The bar was a sort of pet project for him, a little thing on the side. Besides, what man wouldn't love to have a bar of his own? Lou Santoro himself had often been accused of working with the Italian mafia, but whistle-blowers were always persuaded to change their minds, one way or another.

The night after Mike Damiani's interrogation, the heroine Dragon had kept an eye out for Scott Baker near the tavern, but found nothing. After looking around, she had found a note on the roof of the tavern held in place by a brick with a bright red piece of cloth tied around it and flapping like a flag in the night wind. Actually, it was a tie. Mike's tie.

"Cased the joint.
Got some information. Lou's not coming tonight.
Come back tomorrow. Meet here. Don't bring anyone."

The next night was a lot more interesting.
Dragon had found Scott leaning over the edge of the building, dressed in his "costume".

"You made it."

Scott looked down at the two men standing outside the rear alley entrance into the bar. Both of them obviously mobsters.

"Lou hasn't arrived yet, but he's supposed to show up tonight. When he does, we're gonna get him."

Dragon had to ask. She wasn't exactly friends with the mob, and she could but handle a couple of armed goons just fine, but she didn't want to do this for the wrong reasons. This vigilante had potential, but she wanted to see if it was in the right place. So she asked,

"Who exactly is Lou and why do you want him so bad? Better yet, what are you going to do when you get him?"

Scott saw no harm in explaining, "It's like this: The mob's leadership is split into four heads and one big guy at the top. Each head takes care of a different type of 'business' that keeps money coming in. There's Jim Aldo, he takes care of what weapons they get and where they come from; there's 'Little' Edd, handles most of the drug money, at least I think that's what he does; next is 'Father' Billy, the guy who takes care of some political stuff or something like that; and finally there's Lou. I'm entirely sure what he or the others do, but I don't care. They're the important guys and if you cut off its heads,"

"The snake dies?"

"Yeah something like that. He should show up any minute now, he's late."

"You still haven't told me why you want him or what you want to do to him."

"It's the mob, do I need a reason? I just don't like the bastards." Eve could easily sense that Scott was being evasive, "Don't worry about Lou. He'll live."

"I hope so."

Dragon had recently made a friend. A good friend and the two of them were making a team. She had been following the cases of all these attacks on the mafia in the area in the past three months for that reason. She'd figured there was a super behind them and she'd been right, but he needed some refinement. He was effective, very effective and he got things done, but the police had found thugs with broken bones and more than a few serious injuries. The super behind them wasn't so much stopping them as he was beating them down. A blunt weapon had been used. Eve eyed the steel 'L' shaped pipe hanging from one of Scott's belt loops.

Scott and Eve simply waited on the roof. The voices of the two men below were carried on the wind and echoed in the alley.

"Goddamn it's cold, why can't we keep a lookout from inside the bar?"
"Cause we need to keep a lookout."
"For who? Nobody knows about this place, hell, nobody cares. Who's gonna come knockin', the cops?"
"I don't know. Could be anyone, could be that masked Nightwatch creep."
"Aw fuck, don't call him that."
"Why? That's what the boys have been callin' him."
"Yeah, but don't give him a name. It kinda... just don't, masked creep works fine. I'm not lookin' to get on a first name basis with asshole."
"Whatever. You know, they found Mike a couple days ago?"
"I heard. Harold said was tied to a rooftop with frostbite when the cops picked him up. Said that masked creep got him."
"He broke Lenny's arm and gave Bruno a concussion before that, when they were doing that job at the train yard. Bruno has a nervous twitch now, he got hit so hard."
"Hey, can we not talk about this when we're standing in an alley? Lou should be com- there he is, look sharp."

The two men stood up a little straighter when a shiny new car pulled into the alley. One of the doors opened and a balding pudgy man got out of the car. He wore a brown pinstripe suit that bulged around his belly and he put a similarly colored hat on his head. A brown, smoking cigar hung from his lips. One of the guards opened the door to the bar for him. On the rooftop above them, Scott narrowed his eyes.

One of the guards greeted Lou, "Good evening, Mr. Lou."

Lou stopped before entering the bar.

"Any sign of trouble?"
"No sir, we got nothin'."
"Good. I want tonight to go smoothly, you hear me?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Lou. We closed the bar down early, so it'll just be you and your guests."

Lou nodded and walked in, taking another puff of his cigar. The driver of the car drove out of the alley, presumably to find a place to park it. The two guards were alone again. One of them offered a cigarette to his partner before taking one for himself.

Scott moved away from the edge of the building while they did this.

"Alright, he's inside. Let's move."

 

[foodforpigs]

"I was just thinking about Harly's suggestion." answered Mr. Wakefield. "It is still valid, though highly inefficient and risky. Even in the unlikely event that the library or police are incredibly forthcoming in giving us highly restricted information, it would take us hours to properly research Sacrifice's whereabouts, if any relevant information exists at all. You and I both know that if Sacrifice wanted to leave behind no trace, he could do it easily, with powers as unbounded as his."

This time, Mr. Wakefield allowed Mr. Baker to hoist himself onto the seat, intervening only if he asked for it. He knew that he shouldn't be relied on that much, especially not as the 'genius scientist' he no longer was. He slouched back onto his own driver's seat, unwilling to move until they thought of a better course of action.

"By now, that book demon scum might have fed Sacrifice enough malarky to force him into self-exile. Mrs. Leppelman was its only competition vying for Sacrifice's psyche. A divorce would be the last thing Sacrifice would need at this stage of his life."

Mr. Wakefield didn't make the connection that while he used the inherited last name of Sacrfice's wife, that it was, as a matter of obvious fiat, Sacrifice's own last name. He was correctly in a strict sense that the woman was Mrs. Leppelman at some point, but it hardly mattered now. The focus should be on the stage as it was now, and only now.

"Open the glove compartment." said Wakefield, suddenly. "Inside you will find a jury rigged wire tap. It was in the case I ever had to contact the government, even if it's illegal, since they confiscated my official direct link. I doubt they will be of any help though, since they wouldn't even contact us in response to a murder, but it's time we called in reinforcements."

 

[Kazama]

Mr. Baker nodded and opened the glove box. He'd seen a wire tap before, but this one was a whole other ballpark. The bad mood he'd been in was alleviated a bit, for more than one reason.

"You made a goddamn wire tap?" Scott's voice betrayed his amusement at the fact.

He turned it in his fingers, one eyebrow raised. Despite having been put together without the proper materials, it was well made. Mr. Baker wasn't surprised about that, John's creations were always well made. It was the fact that he'd jury rigged one in the first place that amused him. John had always been a goody two-shoes.

"John, you know you can just buy a wire tap, right? They're not hard to find, lots of people sell them."

Baker placed the wire tap on the dashboard. When it came to book smarts, John knew it all; but when it came to street smarts, John was a lost baby. Back in the day, he made a scientific breakthrough practically every other week; but he was the kind of guy to show his ID to bartenders that didn't ask for it in the first place; just in case, he'd always say. Baker couldn't help but feel somewhat comforted by familiar behavior. Not that comforted, but it was good to see that some things never change.

The other reason he felt better, was the mention of reinforcements.

"Who are we calling for back-up? I don't know if any contacts of ours are still active. Shit, I don't even know if any of them are still alive."

 

[foodforpigs]

John nodded his head quietly when it came into light that he could just buy a wire tap anywhere. What made this wire tap special, then? There were some additional wires attached to some metal box of more wires, but as far as he knew, it was a box o' magic that allowed him to press a combination of numbers on a phone to call different numbers.

"The New Freedom Five." John replied simply. "Even if they don't know where Sacrifice is, or won't care to help us, they're the only arm of the government that might have a chance in aiding us quickly. The FBI is effective when they need to be, but to get their help is a pipe dream with the bureaucracy surrounding investigative procedures."

John sighed and put his car into gear, before moving. He didn't want to spook the owner of the house by sticking around too long; he didn't want him to think that he was a cop or something. He forgot to put the car in reverse, however, so it rolled forward a bit before John correctly put it in reverse and started to make his way back out of the community.

"It's more accurate for me to say that I'm going to grab their attention, even if they just direct us to some jailed street punk who has more knowledge of the streets, like, Stu, say. You know the one I'm talking about, the owner of the once popular 'Stu's Bar'. The one people thought was a good guy but had a hand in gang activity, until you and Dragon put an end to his regime."

He pulled up by a roadside pay phone and motioned for the wire tap. "Of course, this is still a risky move, but has a much wider range of possible benefits for us. I could be jailed for doing what I'm going to do to the United States phone system with this wire tap. After all, I was one of the main people behind the network, and this little device cuts it open like a knife. After that, all I have to do is send a coded message that I am Dr. Nucleus, and require assistance to find Sacrifice. It'll be traced to this spot. They'll know it's me. I'm the only one smart and whacky enough to pull a stunt like this."

 

[Kazama]

"Yeah. Yeah you're the only one alright."

He was right about that. For now, all Baker could do was watch John get out of the car and start messing with the payphone. He looked up and down the street, watching for cars; the least he could right now was keep a lookout. Baker looked at the wooden box he'd brought with him. He hadn't opened it in years. He didn't want to, but he hadn't been able to let go of it either. 'Doesn't matter anyway,' he thought as he put the box back under the car seat, 'it's just a box of junk'. He leaned back and watched John work.

He wouldn't admit this either, but he felt useless. So goddamn useless. John didn't seem like he was all there either, Baker had picked that up. Age had gotten to them both, but at least John was making progress. He was wiring a payphone to call super heroes for god's sake. Baker looked at his legs. He glared at them. He'd been so goddamn stupid. He should have died. It should have killed him. Mr. Baker rubbed his temples; he was letting himself fall too deep in that hole again. There was a lot he wanted to forget. The war, going AWOL, running from his own country, living in China for almost 15 years trying to pretend he was someone else, making the decision that cost him his legs, and all those "assignments" the military sent him on during the war. Fucking hell, those black ops. He spent so much time after those trying to convince himself he was still a hero, but then he just gave up on that. And the others; Eve, David, John, even Sacrifice; they never knew. They suspected something was up, but they were never given answers, at least not as far as he knew.

Baker began coughing again and the pain in his chest flared up. He'd just taken the pill, so it wasn't too bad. He just rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd gone into the hole right after he said he wouldn't. He cleared his throat, shrugged his shoulders, anything to bring him back to the present. It had worked almost 30 years and it was working now. He hole got smaller and shrunk away, for now. He looked around; still no cars. He leaned over to get closer to the car window.

"John. After you're done with the phone, let me make a call. I think I might know someone who can help a little more. Maybe. I don't know if they're still active, but it's worth a shot."

Baker was almost guaranteed a dial tone or a wrong number, but he had to try something. He was tired of being useless.

---------------------------------------------------------

USS Lexington
19:26
March 14, 1943
The height of World War II

Colonel Gilbert Tinder sat in the office that had been set up for him. He took a puff of his cigar and savored it. The perks of rank, he supposed. He eyed the various items set up on the desk. Colonel Tinder was an obsessively well organized man. He nudged his cigar box closer to the edge of the desk until it was parallel with it. He straightened up the dull yellow folder at the center of the same desk and then straightened his own tie for lack of anything else to straighten out. A metallic knock came from the iron door to the office.

"Come on in, son."

The door creaked open and then closed. Scott Baker came in, dressed in fatigues. He was still somewhat new to the whole military thing, but his salute came up for the officer.

"At ease, son." Scott lowered his salute, "Why don't you sit down? Sorry to pull you away from your team. Know why I called you here?"

"No sir, I don't know. Why'd you call me here?"

Colonel Tinder took another puff of the cigar. He was a man of order, but he was also a man of small pleasures.

"We're at war, Mr. Baker. The enemy we face is nothing like what you used to fight back home. I'm not saying your team isn't any good, but you aren't fighting armed thugs anymore. Now, I'm sure you know that. You've all been out here for what, a couple of weeks now? You've all seen the ugly face of the enemy. I'm sure you agree that what we face is a threat to the entire country." Colonel Tinder paused his speech for dramatic effect, "But we have Freedom Squad. A fiery sword of justice. The enemy fears you. They crawl back into their holes when America wields you. However... a sword can't do everything."

In addition to small pleasures and order, Colonel Tinder was a man of presentation. Speeches like this weren't uncommon for the officer. He pushed the carefully aligned folder towards Scott who took it, but didn't open it.

"Inside you will find the details of an operation that the U.S. Department of Defense has seen fit to entrust to you. Just you, Mr. Baker. This is a mission you will do on your own."

Scott was about to say something to that, but opened the folder first. The documents inside talked about a German base, and a scientist of some kind. He stopped skimming and looked up at the colonel.

"Why alone? Can't Freedom Squad do this as a team? We're effective when we work together. I don't really see why I have to do this alone."

The colonel nodded. He'd expected a response like this, so he'd had to choose his words carefully.

"Like I said, Freedom Squad is a sword. When America holds you high, her enemies cower and run. You cleave and smite our enemies, and we are grateful for that. The sword of Freedom Squad is a symbol that shines light on us all. But you, Mr. Baker. You're something else. You're a scalpel. A small, easily misplaced, lethal scalpel. Not a symbol like the sword, but if it gets in the right place, it can be even deadlier. When America wields your squad as a whole, she marches down the street sending her enemies running and delivering retribution. But if she wields you, she's walking down the street with a tiny blade in her sleeve; and her enemies won't know they've been cut until they collapse from blood loss. That is why you're doing this alone. The entire squad is effective, but it attracts attention and people know we're coming. But you can be in and out before anyone even knows what happened. You're precise. The files in your hands have all the information we have on a German compound not too far from where you'll be dropped off. It contains details about your target, a German scientist named Hans Adenauer. The research he's doing is valuable to us, but we can't have the Germans keeping it. Your mission is to get the research, and more importantly... kill the man behind it."

"Wouldn't it be smarter to just bring him back alive, sir?"

"No. We need his research, but we don't need him. However, we can't leave him to just start his work over again, he needs to be out of the picture. We're pushing our luck just by killing him, bringing him back would make the entire operation much harder than it has to be. And sending all of Freedom Squad isn't wise here. Remember, this is a job for a scalpel, not a sword. We don't need a body count, we need results. Look, Mr. Baker. I know the whole super hero thing; your team isn't supposed take action unless they have to. But you're not your team. The death of one civilian scientist is worth the lives of thousands of American citizens. Wouldn't you agree?"

Scott felt conflicted to say the least. He didn't exactly have a problem, but it just felt wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the Colonel's words made sense. If this man needed to go, he needed to go.

"I guess I see what you mean, sir. I can do it."

"Perfect. One more thing. You can't speak of this to anyone. The Department of Defense has given this the highest classification. Essentially, this is a black op, Mr. Baker. We may be at war, but assassinating a medical doctor may not be seen in the same light you and I see it in. I know it's not pretty, Mr. Baker, but remember. One assassination is worth thousands of lives. Keep that in mind. You're dismissed. You leave in two hours."

Scott Baker didn't know it at the time; but he would regret this decision for the rest of his life. The scientist in question was developing a cure for a serious disease. The research was brought back, translated, and given to Doctor Nucleus under the cover of being from a university in New York which lead to America being the one to crack it and leaving the Germans without a cure. Scott Baker didn't find this out until several weeks after he'd accomplished the mission, and he'd already been sent on one or two more by then.

 

[foodforpigs]

Dr. Nucleus looked at the research that the university had given to him, that which was supposed to be the cure for a serious disease. He wasn't confused, but rather, he was insulted. He had re-read the documents several times. If they had simply continued going down their very structured and precise line of thought, they would have figured out the solution for themselves. It was as though they only wanted to have him put his stamp of approval on it and finish the dirty work for them. Artists sold their signatures to be associated to a paint so that it can get more sales. Scientists don't sell their names. Nothing about this research should be credited to him. The remaining work was but a trivial matter of dotting the i's and crossing the t's, yet the research team that forwarded it to him implied that what was left would be difficult.

Whose contribution did they undercut to make it this far without knowing the way to the solution?

He tried analyzing for clues, but nothing indicated anything unusual if this research was indeed plagiarized from somewhere else, except for one thing. He completed the work, but when he returned it, he requested that his name wouldn't be attached to the final results. They tried to press him as to why, to which he responded in scientific babble, stating that from that simple 'fact', it was trivially solved. Their expressions were clear; they were in a state of Erklärungsnot, explanation poverty, because they didn't know what he was talking about, and didn't make a move to refute him. The very same phrase had been translated to the rough equivalent of English in one page of the stack of documents, but it had been awkward enough that it was the only clue necessary for Dr. Nucleus to discover that this work was originally done in German, as the language structure became much more apparent after that singular realization.

If only it was Germany, and not the Reich, then giving this research back would be the right thing to do.
--

Mr. Wakefield toyed with the wiretap a lot, though the thing was basically foolproof. A green LED light turned on, confirming that the thing was configured correctly and that he accessed the main line that government personnel shared. Whenever he attempted to punch numbers into the pay-phone base, however, the green light flashed red a number of times equal to the expected number for that particular combination. John had to admire himself for putting such a foolproof mechanism into his own device, just in case 'himself' was having trouble. Jumping jellybeans, it was as though Dr. Nucleus was always confident that it was always the worst possible outcome every single type. Murphy's Law of 'Everything that can go wrong will go wrong' was as real to Mr. Wakefield now as any other scientific law.

He held the phone to his ear by his shoulder and bit his lower lip as he punched in the remaining numbers, his own personal code locked in by the anagram AWAKEN and by muscle memory. Awaken, Wakefield.

"Agent, you are using outdated codes. Explain or this conversation will be terminated in less than ten seconds."
Wakefield's heart was beating out of his chest, the situation suddenly thrust on him.
"Sierra Foxtrot 04, requesting immediate backup finding SF-5, over."
There was a long silence, equal to the time it took to verify the soundness of the information given. "Agent, you are decommissioned. This line is for active agents only."
"SF-2 is dead! Doesn't the government give a damn about that? Please connect me to the new.."
"This conversation is over, civilian. We have the situation already under control."
Click.

It was a cold and fast rejection. The agent's voice on the other line held no hint of reverence for what he had done for his country as Dr. Nucleus. They couldn't even offer compensation to their hero, but rather have him die under the knife of a coldblooded assassin. He hung up the phone and slouched dejectedly. Lebensmüde consumed him, conceptually linking himself to the German scientist who had been denied from helping his own people and getting credit where it was due, because of senseless violence.

"The phone is yours." Mr. Wakefield declared mournfully to Mr. Baker. "I couldn't even get past the front gate."

 

[Kazama]

Mr. Baker frowned. If that was the case, then this was their last lead. He gestured for John to come closer to the window, but it was a payphone. The cord wasn't very long. Instead, after his wheelchair had been set up, he rolled up to the phone. He began to dial the buttons, paused to remember the last two numbers, and then beeped them in.

"Let's hope this works."

The phone rang for a few seconds and, to Baker's surprise, someone picked up.

"Patty's Pepperoni Pizza, how may I help you bro?"

Mr. Baker paused. The number had changed...

"Hellooo? Anybody there?"

The phone was already on its way back to the booth with a sigh of resignation, when Mr. Baker swore and pulled the phone back to his ear. It had been like this before. They used to say Harry's Burgers in the U.S. and when he hadn't heard what he was expecting, he'd given up. But if they had just changed the callsign, maybe there was a little hope. Maybe it was still them. He spoke loudly and quickly, before they had a chance to hang up.

"You don't sell pizza." It used to be 'You don't sell burgers' but Baker adjusted and hoped.
"It's 'You don't sell Pepperoni Pizza', but whatever man. Gimme a minute while I transfer you."

Mr. Baker gave a relieved sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was in. He couldn't believe the network was still up after so many years, but it was there. He turned the chair to face John, the phone still next to his head.

"It's an information network made up of a lot of people all trading information to one another. Started up in the 50's, when a few groups used it to sell information. Since then, it's gotten a hell of a lot bigger. They get their info from all over the world, and just stockpile it. They don't really have a name as far as I know, they're just a bunch of people behind phones who all do one little bit that ends up piling into a lot of stuff. They've got shit on everyone. Even us. I started using them after I left Freedom Squad since I couldn't rely on the government for information anymore. These guys are just as good though, they're well informed. Only downside is, anyone with the right connections can contact them too, so anything you learn from them, someone else can too. At least they're not as strict when it comes to your expiration date. I'm thi-"

"Codename and password."

"Codename: Tomahawk. Password: Hotel-Charlie-Five-Niner-Seven. Shit, Five-Niner-Eight. The numbers are Five-Niner-Eight. It's been a while."

There were a few moments of silence while the operator cross referenced to codes. He'd sounded young, but in one year away from 1980, the network was filled with a lot of tech-savvy kids with connections. Mr. Baker didn't know this, but in 1979 people had begun calling this network "The Hotline". There was a bit of mumbling on the other side on the line. Sounded like the operator was talking to someone.

"Mr. uhhh Baker? Scott Baker?" The operator's voice was a lot less restrained than the government agent who'd spoken to Mr. Wakefield. He was confused and a little excited that ex-Nightwatch was on the line, "Says here it's been a while, but your codes check out alright. What can I do for you?"

"I need any information surrounding the murder of Evelyn Grace. Specifically if you know who did it. Second, I need to know the whereabouts of a Ridley Leppelman."

"Okay cool, uh... give me a minute while I look through our files. We should have a bit on that, just, hang on." The phone thumped as it was put down.

Mr. Baker ran his hand over his bald head. He was quite pleased. He hadn't expected this to pay off, but it did. He nodded at John, satisfied of this recent development.

"You know, the only people who know about this network are either rich, well-connected, or impressed the right people. Th-"

"Are you still there, Mr. Baker?" He had returned faster than anticipated. The way of the future, always making things faster. "Alright well, you're gonna want to sit down cause it's a lot to take in. Our files start off a couple a days ago, some of our guys started noticing a lot of money moving around. Uh, we don't have a particular location for it, but it was a big enough transfer for a couple of red flags to go up. I mean, this was some serious dough. They covered their tracks, like, really well though. The money moved through some accounts, mostly in Eastern Europe, but after that the trail went cold. Uh, no one knows who the money's from, but we have an idea of where the money went and we think it might be your guy. There's a lot of chatter around town saying that Evelyn Grace was killed by an assassin we here at The Hotline have started calling Aftershock. I mean, that's probably not their real name, but it's we call 'em."

At this point, Mr. Baker had leaned in closer to Mr. Wakefield and was cupping his hand around the speaker so both of them could hear. At the same time he thought to himself, 'What kind of stupid name is The Hotline?'

"We don't have much on him, he's kind of a mystery. However, we've been able to trace his activities a little. Uh, we noticed that when money starts moving around certain areas, big people drop dead. The accounts and places where we lost the trail a couple'a days ago are the same accounts and places as before, so you know, we put two and two together. Whenever the money gets to wherever it's goin', this guy moves in and hits somebody. We've got a list of a couple of people we think were his targets and a couple of people we're sure were targets. Lots of them were supers or ex-supers. Some of the bigger fish were Golden Bolt, that British super; he was one of The Queen's Bulldogs back in World War II. Pretty much the British version of Freedom Squad. Uh, let's see... there's that Kabuto guy, the ex-Japanese super, the one that defected. List goes on. Pretty much all of these were done after the Vietnam Annex. We're not sure about all the clients, but we've managed to trace some of them down to a couple'a locations. Mostly Russian and Japanese dudes, but that's where it gets kinda murky."

"We usually find him with the money flow. Every time that much cash moves around in that particular pattern, we start getting some activity from him. Uh, that's why we call him Aftershock, hehe, you know? The money's the quake and then the big shock comes in afterwards. We usually know it's him by connecting the time of death with the money transfers. A couple'a sources say he might be a super as well, but nobody knows for sure. That's about all we've got on him though. It's not much, but it's better than anyone else. The CIA barely even know the guy exists, since they can never seem to connect the dots like we do."

Mr. Baker looked at John. Any theories he'd had about assassins were pretty much confirmed by now. Not only had there been someone who killed Eve, but they'd apparently been behind other superhuman deaths as well. This was news to Baker; he hadn't even known Golden Bolt was dead. He'd been the leader of those British guys, The Queen's Bulldogs. England had loved those guys as much as America had loved Freedom Squad. Baker had met Golden Bolt once or twice. Didn't have much of an opinion on him, but hell, he didn't know the man had been assassinated. He hadn't been keeping up with the news for the last few years. Same for that Kabuto guy. He'd heard of him, but not much. This "Aftershock", as the network people had started calling him, whoever he was, he was dangerous. Then it hit him. The network, or Hotline, did not discriminate against its clients. Once you were a member, you were privileged to whatever information they had, and it was a lot. Even information on other members. And they had something on everyone. So Mr. Baker had to ask.

"This 'Aftershock'. Is he a member?" The network never mentioned this about people unless directly asked. It was bad business sense, but hiding information went against the whole idea of The Hotline. Information from someone being a member was usually left unmentioned unless someone asked for it.

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, he's a member. Aftershock's also his, uh, his codename. He uses like a voice distorter when he calls though, so we don't know what they actually sound like. Also, we naturally trace all our calls, but his is a secured line, so we get nothin'. But then again, most of our members have secured lines, so you know. I mean, you know the rules. You're callin' from a phone booth, so naturally we record that unless we simply can't. I mean, The Hotline writes everything down. If it helps, Aftershock calls our uh, our Russian and American establishments on and off; but a lot of members call the Hotlines in other countries so that we don't know where they're from. Actually, says here you used to call our Chinese and German offices, so you know what I mean. The reason we know some of the supers were his targets is because he called for information on them before they died, but after the money stopped moving. He doesn't always call us, since he knows we're always recording."

Mr. Baker nodded. A lot of people refrained from asking The Hotline things. You'd get answers, but they would know you asked. It creates a system that keeps members from calling them for every little thing, although this is byproduct and not an intention of the Hotline. Mr. Baker looked at John. The operator was right, this had been a lot to take in. "So what do you think?"

 

[foodforpigs]

It was definitely a lot to take in. John's poor mind could barely take the strain of trying to keep all the information in; it was as futile as a full bucket of water with thousands of holes drilled on the sides, with a power drill still at work on it. All he could hope to do was remember the important details. It centered around the primary idea that Master Yeng crammed in Dr. Nucleus' mind all those ages ago that lingered now in Mr. Wakefield's mind without his conscious knowing: that the truth always has multiple sides. Of course it was trivial to Dr. Nucleus to map information to three dimensions in space to shapes even as complex as a great dirhombicosidodecahedron, but that could be mapped to a four dimensional single side - to the whole truth completely explained without error. Dr. Nucleus was adamant in knowing all there was to know, his only limitation then being the time it took to fully study a subject.

What about riddles? challenged Master Yeng. Do they not have multiple sides? How do you solve a riddle?
I look at all the answers and choose the optimal one.
The riddles I'm talking about cannot be analyzed. You must let go, John Wakefield. Let the waters flow as they may through the canals of your mind. The impressions left upon you will be what is true.

I must let go. thought John at the present moment, when Mr. Baker asked for his thoughts. This information is extremely valuable, but only because it can show us the way to the truth. It is not the truth itself.

"It might be that all of Aftershock's previous hits have been for the money, but it doesn't tell us anything about the assassin other that he's willing to kill off major players to accumulate a fortune. It doesn't tell us what the fortune is supposed to be used for. Why pull a hit on Dragon, anyway, and why on Independence Day? She was out of the picture, gone, living the rest of her days in quiet suberbia. She would pose no threat to whatever NWO evil wants to spew up. I don't think even a radical neo-conservative against women's rights would have cause to pull a hit on her. I can't help but feel that, this time, the hit money is a smokescreen to what is really going on. Aftershock is a member, so in a way, he has control over information that flows through it. What we're hearing might be exactly only what he wants us to hear in the first place."

"Maybe, this one time," John added, "the client and the assassin are one in the same."

 

[Kazama]

"Shit, maybe... yeah, maybe, but we don't know enough right now to be certain of anything," Baker held the phone away from their faces, "I don't think anyone can control The Network, there's no one to control cause it's a bunch of little people just doing shit; it's got too many moving parts, you know? But your money idea might not be too crazy. But what would he gain from having us know that he killed Eve?" Baker sighed and scratched his head, "We're gonna need to find out more, that's for damn sure."

Mr. Baker looked at the phone. He inquired about their other mystery.

"Alright. What about the location of Ridley Leppleman, what do you have?"

"Uhh, alright lemme see; I've got our files here. We don't have much on him that isn't kind of old. We can vouch for him still being within the city your uh, your phone booth is in. The last time he used a credit was six years ago at a liquor store in city central. Looks like he bought a snack or something. It matches up with our records, says here he filed for bankruptcy about a week after that and he hasn't filed any taxes since then. No driver's license, and he filed for divorce twice. Married to Kathleen Leppelman and then to an Agatha Gambino. If it helps, he's been seen at museums a couple of times, talking to people who worked there; too bad we don't have anything to show what he asked about. Oh, and he's got an antique book license, but wherever he goes, they don't keep a record of check-outs, cause we've got nothin' attached to it. That's really all we've got, at least recently. Unless you want to know about a bunch of stuff from back in the 50's and 60's; we don't have anything else for you."

Mr. Baker nodded and bit the inside of cheek; an unconscious gimmick he'd take on when he was thinking hard on a case. He moved the phone away from their faces again before he spoke.

"Alright, I'm thinking we hit these museums, see if they can tell us what he asked about; I can get a list from this guy. If that doesn't work, we find his ex-wives, see what they can tell us. Places he'd be, people he might spend time with. Unless you've got a better idea, this looks like the only way we'll find him. After that, I've got a plan on how we can get more on this assassin." Mr. Baker shook his head and his nostrils flared as he exhaled. He shrugged, "At least it's like old times, huh? Solving a case together, back when we fought crime and not Nazis."

Back in their heyday, when they were both spry and young; John and Scott were usually the two detectives when the team had a mystery to solve. John had his book smarts and could calculate a crime scene just by looking at it; and Scott usually knew who to ask and about what. And maybe how to "persuade" guys to talk when they were uncooperative. Together they'd made quite a team; John could look at a bullet hole in wall with nothing but a 12-inch ruler and tell you what gun fired it, from what angle, how far, what caliber, and anything else you wanted to know. Scott could tell who would have wanted to do it, why would someone might want this person dead, if it was the work of an amateur or a professional, who the criminal may answer to, and where you can learn more. Some might even say John and Scott were friends back then. But of course, this was before the war, before Duke's death, back when Scott was just hot-headed instead of bitter.

And John's comment about covering something up with a fake clue, it reminded him about a case, long ago. They'd had something similar happen, even back then.

No, no, it's too sloppy, too careless. Victim wasn't even near this bottle of liquor, but it's been spilled anyway; and the shots you've got marked out on the wall are too fucking sloppy. He fired six times, but the victim only died from a single shot to the head? Unless he was blindfolded and got lucky on the last shot, this asshole fired five times AFTER the victim died. You said .38 revolver. How many shots in a revolver? Six. One for the victim, five for the wall. Fuck what the cops say, if you ask me, we're looking at a hitman trying to disguise himself as a beat thug.

 

[foodforpigs]

"I'm thinking that visiting the museums would be our best course of action. Visiting his ex-wives would probably just leave us with burst eardrums. Though if it was like old times, and I left all the talking to you, you'd be able to guide the conversation, get some information out of them, and possibly even leave with a good impression."

John had seen that done before, with a suspected black widow that put on a front for police because she didn't want to incriminate herself and was either extremely stricken by grief, or a masterful actor. With Nightwatch however, got through that barrier, because it wasn't enough just to strong-arm thugs for information. Dr. Nucleus was impressed by the sheer craft of Nightwatch's practice of rhetoric in action. It was the portrayal of 'realness' and the image that could be related to by those who lived and died on the streets. In comparison, Dr. Nucleus was akin to the wizard in the tall ivory tower that begrudgingly separated himself from his intense studying to glide through crowds as though they were made of ether. Nightwatch sweet talked his way through the suspect's defenses without her conscious knowing, like a scalpel finding its way through joint gaps of heavy plate armor and cutting at the straps. The series of questions was a progression which were themselves methods to get closer to the truth; the content of the answers, combined with the way his question was answered, formed a much better truth. Dr. Nucleus had observed this, but knew he couldn't replicate this method. It was a knack to navigate the currents of a live conversation, like a seasoned sailor navigating through a thunderstorm.

John Wakefield understood his past value when they were a crime-solving team. If he was there and as Dr. Nucleus, when the crime scene was still in Eve's apartment, then he would have spotted all the things that the initial investigation team would have missed. He would be able to judge which wounds were caused when, the make of the knife, and whether or not stab wounds were inflicted post-mortem, like the One Shot for the Head, Five for the Wall case. Now he was just John. Yep, those are stab wounds. he'd say, if he was just at the scene as himself, with no more to add before tears would well up in his eyes and resist throwing up upon seeing the body. Dr. Nucleus appeared cold when investigating, because he was objective and calm when the situation called for it. He would compute the facts and relay them with minimal observational bias. John knew how he pushed the emotional baggage into the darkest corners of his mind, where they would be buried by new information, never to be seen again.

If any average person were to draw a metaphor for the kind of mind Dr. Nucleus had, they'd most likely draw a long system of filing cabinets, organized with the accuracy of a library. That was one of John's greatest secrets of all. It was always chaotic in his mind; Freedom Five's glimpse of that chaos would be whenever Dr. Nucleus would go on an excited rant, where he would stream information faster than any other mind could possibly process. His mind metaphor was a cyclone of scattered papers, with himself as the center of it, as the nucleus. It wasn't information to be captured and segregated into neat boxes, but harnessed like raw energy. It was the only way to capture the chaos of atomic movement; a linear solving method didn't adequately capture what was real. His job was to consistently make connections between the uncountable nodes spinning around him at fast velocities; without himself as the operator, his nuclear-based power would literally spiral out of control.

Now, that motion had died, with the bonds of the nucleus itself withering away. All that was left were stacks of paper, swept away by random gusts of wind to uncover the remnants of emotional baggage that John had successfully hidden away simply by paying no further attention to it. When Master Yeng ordered him to let go, it had a double meaning. Yeng told John that it was not up to him to be like the hen that over obsesses over her eggs. It would be too much of a task for a man with such a chaotic brain to also try to impose order on a world and optimize on how many lives he saved. Yeng could tell that regret ate at him, for as long as the recent memory had his attention, John was overcritical about how he might have saved an additional life, or had spared a soldier a broken arm. He looked distant when gliding through the crowds, but his heart went out to them, as their perpetual guardian. Let go, John. The world will continue spinning without you to guide it along.

"Yeah, so, let's get a list of those museums and their addresses. I should have a map in the glove compartment still. If I don't have one, I can pick one up if necessary."