Children of The Vortex Ch. 01

CHILDREN OF THE VORTEX: MIDNIGHT'S SON

Chapter One: Opening Moves

By FinalStand

*When heroes embrace expedience, villains can be made heroes by necessity*

'Blips' -- normal humans who spontaneously evolve into a super-being ~ usually rather weak, or short term ~ burning out, or being consumed by their powers.

'Legacy (ies)' -- the children of super-beings.

'Crash Cases' -- people who became super-beings thru external means.

'Vortex (es)' -- powerful blips/crash cases.

[FIRST STEPS]

"What ... is ... it?" the man strapped to the chair mumbled. He didn't think it was time for his feeding. His weekly 'shower' was still three days away.

"The courts have decided to cut you loose, Atticus Styx. You've done your time. You are being released," the Human guard announced.

"How long ..." they could barely make out the inmate's words.

"It is June 3rd, 2025, Old Man. A few bleeding hearts have decided your civil rights have been violated so they are cutting you free."

"Seventy-nine years ... it has been ... that long ... already?"

"Yes. They have decided you have been punished enough and now we have to let you go."

"Oh ..." he barely spoke above a whisper.

"He doesn't look like much," Nightingale, an extremely enhanced metahuman, turned to her equal empowered female companion, Sonic Storm. The target of their focus ~ his skin was a sickly-grey color, his frame was skeletal and his visible hair was a grey-white bristly stub. The man's eyes were sunken, lifeless orbs imbedded deep within his skull. His voice was a thin rasp; a clear sign of disuse.

"He's been in solitary confinement for almost all of his 79 years," Sonic Storm chortled. "He was just a kid when he was sent away. I imagine he looks fine for a person who hasn't seen the light of day since before your grandparents were born."

"What did he do?" the younger metahuman gasped.

"An assortment of Crimes against Humanity -- murder, theft, kidnapping, criminal conspiracy to overthrow the US Federal Government. He was a criminal henchman with delusions of bad-assery in his day."

"How old is he?"

"He is 94," one of the five regular guards responded.

"He was sentenced to Life in Prison when he was fifteen?!? Didn't they take his youth into account before they threw him away?"

"They sentenced him to Death, Nightingale" Sonic Storm snorted.

"It turned out he could survive all conventional/accepted means of executing him back then, so they settled for putting him in a lightless hole, strapped to a chair, subjected to power-dampening fields strong enough to screen a small city until he died of old age."

"And now the Supreme Court has ruled ..." Nightingale continued.

"Yes. Idiots."

"No!" Nightingale protested. "You mean he's been kept in a seated position for nearly eighty years? Can he even still move? What he has been subjected to is barbaric."

"Barbaric? I'll show you pictures of his victims, Kid. As for his mobility; we are about to find out." "Power down #1," she commanded via Blue Tooth. Nightingale felt the first pinpricks of energy tingle her flesh then fade away. She was about to step into the room when Sonic Storm stopped her. "That is the first of three. No. 1 is the section wide dampener. No. 2 is for this detention block and No. 3 is for his individual cell."

"We are not here for him -- beyond his 'un-kill-ability', he's a 'blip'," Sonic Storm informed her. "We are here in case the other inmates get antsy. They didn't tell me this was your first prison-release."

"Candid had a personal problem come up, so they sent me," Nightingale confessed. "I volunteered for the assignment actually."

"Disappointed?"

"Somewhat. I've never heard of this guy ... Midnight Sun ... his powers," she scrolled through the briefing on the crook -- former crook, "appear small-time."

"World War II -- different times."

"Three down," a voice announced over their Bluetooths.

"Come on, you," Sonic Storm stepped into the cell. It smelled ripe -- stinking of unwashed humanity, urine, feces, despair, and hopelessness. She kept an eye on the felon while Nightingale undid his solid ankle, wrist and neck restraints. They both noted the drain in the floor as well as the sores on his flesh which were the result of constant, highly restrictive confinement.

"Don't do anything stupid, Old-Timer," Nightingale cautioned him. "My reflexes are faster than you can track, I'm stronger than you and have extensive martial arts training. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. I don't want to hurt you," she eased up.

"Too late for that," he murmured. Once Nightingale pulled him to his feet, she slipped her left arm around his waist and placed his right arm over her shoulder.

"We are going to take you upstairs to the Transition Facility, get you squared away and prepped for your new life of freedom. For you that means an assisted-care facility and a Social Security check," Sonic Storm went on with what must have been boring routine for her.

"You do know what Social Security is, don't you?" she added in a condescending fashion.

"Yes ... No ... I'm not sure."

"It means the government is going to keep picking up the check for your room and board," Sonic Storm snorted. "On the plus side, you will finally be able to see the Sun once more."

"You don't need to be so mean to him," Nightingale frowned.

"He's a soulless butcher," Sonic Storm scoffed. "I doubt the past seventy-nine years buried inside a mountain have changed that."

"Do you have any skills?" the younger woman inquired.

"I ... used to ... for a few weeks ... stocked shelves and swept floors ... I worked at S. Klein 'On The Square'," the ancient one recited as if it meant something. "Union Square, New York City," he added.

"Never heard of it," Sonic Storm commented. They had made it to the elevator, but had to wait for the first and second dampener fields to be reenergized before proceeding up.

Only on the surface level of Copperhead Super-Max did the old man finally meet his legal team. He had never met them face-to-face before -- civilians weren't allowed into the locations housing inmates like him; it was considered too dangerous. They couldn't even meet with him in private because of those continuing concerns.

The news for the guy wasn't good. He had been stripped of his citizenship in 1947 only to have it be returned by a Supreme Court ruling in 1980. His claims of being experimented on by associates of the Federal Prison system went nowhere -- the records from the time period remained classified plus he had been a 'stateless' person when ~ 'theoretically' ~ those bad things had happened to him...

He had never held a prison job so he had no prison savings account. The majority of his possessions had been misplaced long ago so the government reimbursed him $225 plus three sets of formal yet rather shabby clothing. He still had his criminal costume though ... from when he was a scrawny fifteen year old. He had no known surviving next of kin, no external property and no sponsors. It seemed most jurisdictions didn't want a super-powered ex-convict retiring in their jurisdictions, despite his octogenarian status.

The first serious hiccup came when the prison's metahuman psychologist collided with the legal team's knowledge of Constitutional Rights. The Federal Government wanted to use telepathic means to determine his mental state. They didn't want to release him only to have him become violently psychotic a week later.

"This isn't a parole hearing," his cute female lawyer, Ms. Giselle Chasme, insisted. "You should have been monitoring his mental state while he was your prisoner."

"We are legally permitted to 'spot-check' any employee, visitor, or inmate for signs of telepathic manipulations," the accompanying Assistant Warden countered. "Besides, your client has been actively blocking our attempts to monitor him the entire time he's been in custody."

"For seventy-nine years?" Nightingale muttered.

"Come on, you old fossil," Sonic Storm joked. "Let the nice telepath inside your skull so we can let you take care of yourself for a change."

"No. I won't let you take them," he shook his head.

"Take them?" Nightingale worried.

"Ah," the prison telepath nodded. "Mr. Styx, it has been illegal for the government to edit, alter, or remove a person's memories without a specific FISA court order since 1959. Your mind is perfectly safe. All I need to do is be sure you aren't exhibiting psychotic impulses. It won't take five minutes."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I don't trust you. Take me back to my cell then."

"We have a problem then, Ms. Chasme," the Assistant Warden shrugged.

"No, we don't," she countered. "You may expel him for non-cooperation. Refusing to submit to a mind probe isn't grounds for arrest, merely cause for dismissing visitors and holding employees for 48 hours. As for not trusting you ... you animals kept him in a hole for almost eighty years. Damn right he doesn't trust you!"

"You are partially correct. If he fails to comply, I may expel him. I also have grounds to interrogate him if I feel this prison's integrity is being compromised by a refusal to cooperate," the Assistant Warden riposted.

"Right. Fine. Overrule the Supreme Court of the United States and see what that does for your career, Assistant-Warden Carmichael," the young lawyer snapped.

"He is ninety-five years old," Sonic Storm pointed out. "Let the old bastard go."

Conceding the point, the prison official tried to convince him to sign a written agreement for his post-institutional housing. Pen in trembling hand, the man finally looked up at his ... fellow humans and metahumans.

"Am I free?"

"Yes," the official grudgingly admitted. Nightingale was troubled by his historic lack of effective legal counsel as well as his feeble mental and physical states. She decided she would talk about it with her mentor, Candid, later.

"Good. I'd like to go," he spoke. The pen dropped to the paper unused.

"We have set aside housing for you, Mr. Styx," the official coaxed him. "The World is a very different place now. You need to be familiarized with the changes and the effects new legislation has on your citizenship status. As a metahuman, you will have to register. You are going to have trouble adjusting."

"I'd like to go," he repeated.

"Where are you heading to, Old Man?" Sonic Storm put a hand on his shoulder, partially turning him to face her. "We'll drop you off."

"I'm going to take a walk."

"Where?"

"Am I free?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't have to tell you. I have no one to see and nowhere to go, but I definitely don't want to be here with you people."

"That would be a mistake," Sonic Storm's posture grew aggressive.

"Why? Are you really prepared to take what little life I have left? Having taken so much, it what I have left still too much? Everyone I have cared for has either died at your hands, withered away and perished in this Hell-hole, or passed away outside forever beyond my embrace. Why can't I simply take a few steps outside ... on my own?"

"Mr. Styx, the problem is the prison complex is on a Restricted Preserve. There is not normal traffic and all people are restricted to one road, or two air lanes. There is no 'walking' out of the Copperhead Super-Max," Nightingale clarified.

"Oh ... I was beaten into a coma before they transferred me here ... I didn't know," his head lowered. "I just ... like to ... feel the Sun again."

"How about I fly us out of here? Once we've left Restricted Air Space, I'll drop you off anywhere -- in the United States -- you want to go," she offered.

"I need to finish up a few items of a personal nature," the lawyer inserted herself.

"He can call you tonight?" Nightingale suggested an alternative.

"Alright," they both agreed.

"Okay," he nodded sadly. "Can I go now?"

"Sign for your personal items and you Reintegration packet," the Assistant Warden shoved a different set of papers his way. The lawyer looked them over, gave her nod of approval before he painfully scrawled down each letter of his name. His eyes remained locked on his print.

"What?" Sonic Storm snorted. "Your penmanship sucks."

"I haven't written anything ... for a long, long time."

"You never wrote anyone?" Nightingale asked.

"They never let me. The only person to write me was my Mother. They never gave me her letters and only told me about them after she had died. I imagine those were the only letters she ever wrote. She had no education," he muttered.

"Oh ..."

"How sad," Sonic Storm's words dripped with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes. "Nightingale, don't forget this sorry sack of shit is a mass-murdering scumbag."

"Don't you think he's paid his debt to Society?" Nightingale retorted.

"No. He's not sorry about a damn thing he did. Letting him loose is a mistake," she replied confidently. "I'll be running across him again soon enough."

The prison provided him a second-hand piece of luggage with his legal paperwork, clothing and new toiletries. He hadn't bathed, or shaved, himself during his entire incarceration it seemed.

The exterior blast doors opened and the ambient light flooded the area between the general courtyard and the outside world. The old bastard gave a phlegmy gurgle as if he was drowning before toppling forward onto his hands and knees.

"Mr. Styx?" the lawyer tried to rush to his side. Sonic Storm stopped her. Nightingale was about to catch him except she felt 'something' wash over her. It was indescribable. She shot Sonic Storm a concerned look. Sonic Storm was concentrating on the exiting felon who was struggling to return to his feet on his own.

"Mr. Styx?" Ms. Chasme repeated.

"Sonic Storm is it?" the old man croaked. He remained fixated on the cascading natural light.

"Yeah ... going to come look me up sometime?"

"Nah," he scoffed. "You might misconstrue those words as a threat. I've learned my lesson. I won't be coming back here."

"We'll see about that," she chuckled.

"I know you will," he mumbled. "This time ... this time, I'll be ready."

[HIS PAST]

{SOMETIME LATER}

"The shower is all yours, Mr. Styx," Nightingale offered. They were at some highway rest stop in southwestern Oregon. This was the direction he'd picked and she'd flown him to the closest sign of habitation. Afterwards she had glided off then doubled back and hovered some distance behind him.

The old man had started walking west the moment she departed, never slowed and showed no interest in hitching a ride with the handful of trucks and cars transiting the roadway. He'd paid for a meal at a touristy rest stop and got a room with twin double-beds for the night. He hadn't appeared surprised when she came knocking on his door.

Nightingale had spent some of her time aloft researching Midnight Sun. First off, she realized the bureaucracy had his name wrong -- it was Midnight's Son. There was no reference to a 'Midnight'. He'd ended his career as part of a super-powered group called 'The Sinister'.

In World War II, they had attempted to capture and control FDR and his cabinet, worked with fascist super-soldiers and even attempted to hijack the two atomic bombs heading toward Japan. The details of the 'secret' trials were murky with serious discrepancies ... things like heavily redacted references to items such as the 'Valhalla Project' and the 'Delphi Metagene Experiment'.

The ringleaders ~ the Red Dynamo, the Conductor of Crime, the (original) Wrath and the (original) Gestalt were killed during the final confrontation. The (1st) Killjoy along with Midnight's Son both earned the Death Penalty. Seventeen other super-powered beings received sentences from 5 years to Life in Prison. In the mid-1950's, most of those had been conditionally pardoned ... and recruited by US Intelligence Agencies for service overseas -- 'killing Commies' in Vietnam, Latin America and beyond the Iron Curtain.

Midnight's Son had first appeared in the newspapers back in 1937, working alongside Killer Mime and Songbird (the second metahuman with that name) -- two equally low-powered petty criminals. During the closing days of the Great Depression they had been low-rent crooks with the precursors of real power. Mostly they were busted by the elite law-dogs of the era and costumed vigilantes -- all small-time stuff. It was normal, Depression-Era shenanigans ... until 1940.

In July of 1940, the trio resurfaced in, of all places, Paris -- fighting Nazis. It turned out the Killer Mime was a Jewish mobster named Hiram Heinzburger. They were seen helping British heroines (1st) Clarion and (1st) Spitfire battling Blitzstrahl, Jäger, Juggernaut, Kriegerin and Überläufer either looting the city (the Nazi version), or rescuing captured British 'diplomatic' staff (the British version).

In October of that year, they were involved in a British espionage mission against the Kiel Canal in Germany. Songbird and Clarion died, Killer Mime was captured -- then publically executed -- while Spitfire and Midnight's Son made their escape thru a neutral Sweden.

In the spring of 1941, Midnight's Son reappeared in Canada acting as a stooge for Red Dynamo, robbing a depository of British art shipped for safe-keeping to Ottawa. Red Dynamo was a different kind of villainess. She was a renegade Swedish super-genius, mentalist, cutting-edge engineer and Trotskyite (a Communist faction opposing Joseph Stalin's Union of Soviet Socialist Republics {USSR} aka Russia).

Two months later came the kidnapping of the US Ambassador to Mexico and his family. Precisely what happened wasn't clear yet is 'felt' like the hostage rescue attempt by US vigilantes was botched and the ambassador and his wife died. In the final analysis, the US Government laid the blame on the Sinister hiring the White Ninja Clan to do the deed ... and that was that. With the US gearing up for war, the duo had been left in limbo -- both castigated and recruited. Then came 'The Sinister'.

By 1943, the Sinister was US's Public Enemy #1. Still, Midnight's Son remained a 'tool', messenger, and all-around henchman, not a ringleader. He certainly wasn't a criminal mastermind. His main distinguishing feature seemed to be he was one of the few members who constantly evaded capture even after the Allies got their act together and squashed the others ~ thus their persistent menace.

Their last 'crime' was their attempt to take the nascent United Nation's hostage at their inaugural session in San Francisco. For some reason, the US government pointed him at a slaughterhouse of dead bodies -- nine to be precise. There was no extenuating circumstances given for his murder of an old, rich and reputable extended family of San Francisco's Old Money Establishment and a few of their staff.

It was an uncomfortable aberration in a terribly non-lethal criminal career. Midnight was an 'Oliver Twist'-style crook. He'd been arrested for the first time when he was nine years old. In the early days, his minimal supernatural talents had allowed him to easily escape confinement ... and he'd shown a remarkable proclivity toward burglary and a peculiar, indefatigable loyalty in rescuing his 'friends'.

The minor talents which kept him one step ahead of the law in 1937 were utterly inadequate in combating the powerhouses of the US war effort at the conclusion of World War II. At 15, he had become a worn down, has-been covered in the fresh blood of the innocent. Had his life played out today he would have gotten some severe psychological counseling and intensive, super-being rehabilitation. Instead, his whole life had been a waste.

Nightingale was mulling over her possible approaches to him when she heard the shower cut off. She gave it a minute ~ still he hadn't emerged.

"Mr. Styx?" she called out. She was reclining on the closer of the two double beds in the motel room.

"Yes," his voice sounded far stronger, crisper and more assertive.

"Can I talk to you about your past?"

"You are going to do so no matter what I say so go right ahead."

"Why did you murder those people?"

"In San Francisco? I guess it is the Tri-Cities these days."

"Yes? What other killings were you involved with?" she inquired. Mexico maybe?

"I wasn't officially a soldier -- too young -- when I killed a few Germans in the Second World War. I imagine their families could considered me a murderer," he informed her.

Atticus Styx stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his waist. At least it should have been Atticus. The man before Nightingale was in his twenties and seemed carved out of pale, chalky grey granite with veins of obsidian running through it/him, if that was possible. His once close-cropped, yellowish-white hair was now quite long, silky pure white as an endless snowfield and slicked back from the dampness.

"Mr. Styx?" she sat up abruptly.

"Yes, I'm the tottering, geriatric everyone is expecting to kick the bucket any week now," he mused. "And, yes, I know why I'm not going to anymore and I'll be volunteering for a quick slalom down the gullet of an Ancient One before I tell you, or any of your vicious, sadistic band, how I accomplished this minor miracle."

"What? Why?" 'Ancient One?'

"Let me help you along, Kid," he joked with grim humor. "The family in the house -- the patriarch was both my great-uncle and my father. He took in his older brother's heir -- and heir to the family fortune -- a child-minded daughter, raped her and kept her as his pet. The whole family knew and did not a damn thing about the Horror Show which was my childhood."

"Ah ..."

"He was a sick, sadistic monster. And filthy rich. When my Mother ran away the first time, she went to the police -- because," he laughed bitterly, "she naïvely thought they were supposed to protect her. The beat cops she first came across treated her well, or so she later told me, but then they took her to the Precinct Captain who took her to the Police Commissioner. The Police Commissioner and 'Father' were buddies. Mom earned some fresh brands for her little show of defiance."

"She kept trying and people kept bringing her back to him and that family. It wasn't some 'big secret'. We traveled with the rest of them as their servants. In New York City, she was so desperate for me to escape, she shoved me off a ferry when she saw the police closing in on us."

"They assumed I was dead ... a pity, really. I did get away, but not in a good way. Another sick, twisted piece of human garbage was rounding up transients in Newark, New Jersey. He experimented on us and 'Midnight's Son' was the result. A series of explosions ripped his lab to pieces, killing him, his guards, helpers and most of us test subjects. Only Hiram, Judy and I manage to make our getaway together. The rest you probably know."

"Why didn't you go to the police then?" Nightingale leaned forward almost coming off the bed.

"Hiram -- Kike career hood; Judy -- creole 'lady' with multiple convictions for Prostitution; me -- like I wanted to be put back under my Great-uncle's custody ... add a nice big waterfront warehouse full of expensive-looking hardware blown up ... who do you think they would have blamed? The dead scientist, his rich shadowy financiers, or a bunch of us criminal nobodies?"

"But ... why crime?"

"1937 Metropolis [New York & its Burroughs] wasn't overflowing with legit job opportunities for people like Hiram and Judy. They became the only family I had. They bled for me, took care of me -- they were the only people who never let me down."

"So you went to fight the Nazis ... which was a good thing," Nightingale assured him.

"Judy told us three days before her final mission she was pregnant. They married the night before the submarine ride to the Third Reich. Do you know what a 20 millimeter shell does to a young woman's body? It is not pretty; trust me. I'll never get that image, or her final, powerful scream out of my mind."

"Clarion was dead and Spitfire was pretty pissed, thinking we had been sold out. In Sweden, we hooked up with Red Dynamo. Spitfire was a closet Marxist and knew Red Dynamo from their collegiate days so it was natural they joined forces. I followed along. I had nowhere else to go."

"Why didn't this come up at your trial?"

"No one asked. Beside, by that time, all I could do was hurt the few people who had done right by me yet weren't beside me -- facing the Death Penalty, or eternity in a cell," he seemed to be looking passed her.

"But ... after your heroic actions, why did you return to a life of crime?" Nightingale struggled to understand.

"Ottawa? The artwork had already been stolen -- the people behind the theft claimed to have put it on ships bound for Canada then tipped off the Germans about the convoy's location. 519 kids were aboard two of those ships which went down to the bottom of the Atlantic in mid-December. Kids my age. Red Dynamo wanted to expose the conspiracy ... except it turned out the real thieves had a great deal more clout than we thought they did."

"Mexico ... the same conspiracy?"

"Don't know. The ambassador was taking bribes from various mining concerns, covering up their use of slave labor and sending the refined ore someplace the US didn't approve of. We made him give us all of those secret accounts and he was alive when we left him. I have no idea who killed him and his wife, but a good bet would be the people he was in cahoots with deciding to 'shut him up'. All I know for sure is it wasn't the White Ninja who did it."

"Really?"

"Why would the Red Dynamo bother lying to me? I was hardly a credible threat, or likely to betray her."

"Ah ... okay, but why did you kill your uncle ... father in 1945? And steal the nuclear weapons?"

"The bombs ... to stop Stalinist agents from sabotaging the real ones. Uncle Joe [Stalin], our 'good' ally, wanted American GI's to die in droves on the shores of the Japanese Home Islands. His agents thought we were selling them the genuine articles in exchange for something she called 'Spanish Gold' to be placed in a 'safe place'."

"By early 1945, Dynamo saw the Iron Curtain going up and wanted to fund anti-Stalinist resistance cells in Eastern Europe. We gave them fakes instead of the genuine articles -- if you recall, she was a super-genius -- but they double-crossed us as well. The US got to keep its bombs though, right?"

"Again -- why didn't you bring this up at your trial?"

"Let's just say letting them know how much I knew about Red Dynamo's plans would have been most unfortunate for my mental health. As it was, by the time they came knocking ~ so to speak ~ I was ready. Besides, I witnessed them murder Red Dynamo and telling the whole World Spitfire was a Communist wouldn't have done her any good either ... so why bring her down with me?"

"Oh ... that makes tragic sense ... what about San Francisco?"

"San Francisco was a mistake. Like I always did, I was spying on the various bigwigs who were operating behind the scenes of the first meeting of the United Nations."

"I saw him ... and Mom ... and I nearly lost it. I appeared in his study only wanting to let him know I was still alive, but he was already dead ... I went looking for my Mother ... I came across his oldest daughter next ... she was freshly dead too ... so I got out of there. Somehow they knew I had been there and pinned all those deaths on me."

"Really? Come on now, you don't need to lie about this," she studied him.

"Among everything else, I've already been found guilty and served my time for all nine of their deaths," he turned his gaze on her. "Why would I lie? Your opinion means nothing to me. I hardly care what you think ... or what anyone thinks of me anymore. All I knew was they hadn't killed my Mother ... when they could have. I knew what that meant."

"She was a hostage to your ... confession?"

"That's how I saw it," he sighed.

"Wow ... again, how tragic," she nodded. "And she is dead?"

"So they told me."

"Oh ... are you going to be okay now?"

"Huh? Okay? Kiddo, I can't remember what 'okay' was like," he grew angry.

"You can turn your life around now, join some agency and use your gifts to make the World less of a screwed-up place. You can work to ensure no other children need go through what you experienced," the superheroine grew intense.

"Lady, exactly where do you think my 'Milk of Human Kindness' would be coming from?" Styx's eyes narrowed. Had they not been inky-black wells of nothingness ... "I know precisely three things for certain. You and anyone buying into your New World Order scheme weren't then -- and are not now -- the 'good guys'."

"The second thing is -- I'm not walking around 'outside' because somebody in Washington D. C. decided my rights had finally been violated enough. Someone wanted me out for some reason ... and I'm a bit curious what that reason would be. I have my suspicions though ... and 'no', I'm not going to tell you what they are."

"If someone is trying to get you out of prison then wouldn't you be safer ..." Nightingale began worrying Midnight's Son was a rambling, delusional paranoid.

"Ha! Fat chance. One of the only clues I have is they didn't have the wherewithal to simply snatch me out of a Metahuman Super-max prison facility. If they are on 'your' side, they would have had me transferred, or some other malarkey like that. Since they didn't ... I am assuming they wanted to come at me when I was alone."

"You are alone right now," Nightingale protested, "Almost."

"Lady, I've been alone for so much of my life, I don't know what to make of you, a flesh-and-blood woman, talking to me right now. Why are you here anyway?"

"I ... you appeared so forlorn ... and I think life has been giving you a multitude of bad breaks," Nightingale looked away.

"Damascus," he said in an intense whisper.

"What?"

"Damascus," he repeated.

"What does that mean? Do you mean the capital of Syria? What does that have to do ..." but he was already moving to his small pile of clothes.

"It means I'm no longer trapped within my own head," he mused softly. "I had to double-check."

"I don't understand. How would you 'double-check'? There is no record of you being a telepath," Nightingale worried.

"Red Dynamo was a Master-class telepath along with being a great leader, hyper-inventor in a rather awesome powered suit," he nodded ... to some inner struggle perhaps. "She made plans and plans within plans."

"Like?"

"Like ... realizing we had been set up and forces she hadn't forecast were closing in. Most likely she was going to be betrayed and murdered. So she made ... contingencies."

"Like?"

"Like?" he parroted her. He had his boxers on so let his towel drop.

"Like what contingencies? I mean, if she had some plans for you, they happened over eighty years ago," Nightingale reasoned. "Everyone you have worked with is dead. I'm sure for her time she was powerful and clever, but today metahumans operate at a whole different -- higher -- power level."

"You think so?" he looked her way after putting on his undershirt.

"I know so."

"The same general procedure they did to hapless kidnapped victims like me, Hiram and Judy illegally back in 1937 was pretty much what the US government dumped hundreds of millions of dollars recreating for volunteers in 1943. The difference being they were willing to kill us to get results back in '37."

"Really?"

"Again -- why would my teammates have lied to me about this?" he shrugged. "The problem being Hiram and Judy destroyed the torture factory and burned up all the notes from the experiments which made us ... except he actually kept few things around for a 'rainy day'. He gave most of those to Spitfire in 1940 to help the British beat the Nazis."

"You said 'most'," Nightingale leaned forward. Atticus put on his socks before responding.

"Yes -- most. Spitfire gave Red Dynamo the 'Catalyst' which Hiram had been holding on to -- the final experiment which kept the four of us alive when all the other test subjects died."

"Catalyst? Do you know what it was?" Nightingale's brow furrowed. "Wait! You said 'four' survived? There is only a record of three surviving."

"The fourth member was Midnight," he gave a tragic smile full of hopelessness and longing. He began working on his pants ... which once baggy now barely fit his healthy-adult frame.

"There is no record of a hero, or villain, by the name of Midnight before 1968," she countered.

"I wouldn't know. Midnight and I have been pretty ... inseparable since 1937."

"You are ... fused with another human being?" she gulped.

"'Fused' is such a messy word," he chortled. "Midnight had to step halfway out of our dimension to disperse the energy which would have otherwise killed all four of us. Back in 1937 it took all of us combined to do it -- survive the explosion and escape. Her body never came back to this reality ever again."

"Oh ..."

"Yeah. She was our long-term invulnerability ... except Judy really wanted to have a kid with Hiram ... so they used some of the Catalyst to tweak their powers and she finally got pregnant, but it cost Hiram and Judy their invulnerability ... or maybe Midnight abandoned them ... anyway, they died and we carried on, Midnight and her Son."

"But no one else knew about her -- Midnight?"

"Only Clarion, Spitfire and Red Dynamo," he confirmed, "and I saw two of them die plus I figure Spitfire has also passed on by now."

"Her grandniece is the current Spitfire," she let him know.

"I never met her -- the new one -- and I doubt she shared that secret," Atticus shrugged. "If she did ... talk about radioactive dynamite."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I think it is soon going to become very relevant," he shot her a curious look.

"Because you have faith in Red Dynamo's contingencies?"

"Yeah ... pretty much. Also, can you point me to a paper with a financial section? I need to find the current price of gold."

"Why?"

"Recall those two atomic weapons we sold the Soviets back in 1945?"

"You can't believe they haven't confiscated the money by now," Nightingale scoffed.

"It is right where we left it," he grinned. "I just checked."

"How?"

"Among other things, I have 'darkness'-powers which include being able to see into dark places I've been to before ... and the $20 million in US Double-Eagles is right where we stashed it. Red Dynamo called it the 'Spanish Gold' because the Spanish gave it to the Soviets back in the 1930's during the Spanish Civil War and she insisted we -- the Sinister -- be paid in the same, and the Spanish Gold Reserve included US gold coins."

Nightingale pulled out her Smartphone and did some quick research. She concluded with a low whistle ...

"Ummm ... that could equate to as much as $1,272,456,000 ($1,315.20 per oz.)... but the money was acquired illegally. It is not yours," she shook her head.

"By all means ... explain to me why it isn't mine," he snorted. He began working his feet into equally tight leather footwear. "Did the Soviet Union ever admit to paying a group of criminals the twenty million in gold to steal two US atomic weapons? If so, is the US going to prosecute me -- the last surviving member of The Sinister -- for the crime of FOILING a foreign government's attempt to steal those bombs thus resulting in me being pivotal in saving countless GIs' lives?"

"You can't believe they are simply going to let you keep all that money ~ over a billion dollars' worth ..."

"Who is going to stop me? You?"

"Maybe ... but, no. The United Nations with the support of the Unity Alliance might have something to say about it. Do you want to see Sonic Storm again?"

"By all means, if I've broken any US, or International, law, let me know," he continued the clothing process by putting on his dress white shirt and buttoning it -- his chest clearly too broad for the article of clothing. "Even if the Soviet Union claims we stole the gold, it was over eighty years ago. They would have to disprove the case and Red Dynamo went to the trouble of secretly recording the meetings where the mission was discussed with Soviet agents -- I know where those tapes are too -- right now in fact."

"The Spanish government? Let them take it up with the Soviet Union turned Russia ... I am still surprised the cronies of Stalin gave up power," he shook his head. "But that's on them, not me. Beyond that, the coins may have been minted by America, but they are 0.9675 gold and I'm sure I can find a market for that bullion somewhere -- Red Dynamo left me with a considerable list of likely buyers ... many of whose descendants are both alive and criminally active in 2025."

"Then there is the fact I didn't own the money until after they robbed me of my citizenship as I was underage," he pointed out. "Our knowledge of many things is lacking, but inheritance and Gold Ownership Laws are not two of those areas. We were able to pick the minds of other inmates over the decades without getting caught because we were careful ... though I'll deny the telepathic prying in any court of law which wasn't my prying anyway. By all means, go after Midnight ... if you can find her."

"So ... what do you plan to do? Go back to a life of crime?" Nightingale felt her disappointment seeping in. She'd hoped ... after such a long time incarcerated ... he would have sought to change his ways.

"Do I plan to steal anything, kill anyone, or do anything more than take actions associated with me defending myself ... no," he shook his head. "I simply don't think I will be given many peaceful options. As you recall, I don't believe I was let go because a group of nine Supreme Court Justices recalling my case which transpired before virtually all of them were even born."

"You still think someone is coming for you?"

"Give it thirty seconds."

"Why 'thirty seconds'?"

"Because they are already here," Midnight's Son announced, "surrounding the apartment block and hemming us in.

"Who?"

"I've never seen their lifeforms before," he seemed to be concentrating on something else. "They have applied a 'dimensional anchor' to the environs which -- if they aren't legit law enforcement -- is considered a hostile/criminal act I am allowed to -- by US Federal law -- respond to with violence as this has become a kidnapping attempt, if not outright assassination."

Beyond being a definitely threatening move, detecting such actions went beyond his 'blip' status. 'Someone' had been practicing ... which wasn't possible if he'd been under power dampeners for the past 75 years. As if reading her mind ...

"As I told you, Midnight was both fused with me and dimensionally apart which meant the dampeners ~ at first ~ barely affected her and later didn't bother us at all. Then, taking into account her ability to enter other peoples' dreams ...

"Wait," Nightingale interrupted. "Midnight can enter peoples' dreams too?"

"Yes."

There was a knock at the door, further spooking her.

"And no one talked about this phenomena?"

"She's classy, quite the dish, and very persuasive. Besides, they were already in Lifetime Solitary Confinement in a Metahuman Super-Max Prison. Who would have listened to them if they complained?" he poised the response question. A second question.

"Coming," Nightingale called out -- to the door. "You mean for nearly seventy-five years ... you and Midnight have had access to some of North America's most dangerous criminal minds ... and no one has been aware of it?" she gulped as the horror filtered in.

"Yep -- pretty much," he tried not to laugh.

"So you were lying about not knowing about the outside world?" she headed for the door, but not before they received a second, urgent knock. "COMING!" she shouted.

"Let's just say a full encyclopedia version of what was going on wasn't on our itinerary. We were more interested in the vast technological improvements, metahuman innovations and, of course, power and martial arts techniques we could utilize so when we did escape, we wouldn't be powerless and unskilled."

"Oh shit," she muttered. Then she opened the door. The person at the door appeared familiar to her. "Hello?"

"Special Agents Brewster and Ndoumbe," the two long-coat wearing, plain clothes officers flashed their Unity Alliance badges. Brewster was Anglo-Indian from the UK while Ndoumbe was West-Africa, from Nigeria. It was the five armored operatives she could see and the seven others she sensed in her periphery which were really weirding her out. "We are here to talk with Atticus Styx."

Two metahuman operatives and twelve power-armored suits were way, way too much for a supposed 'blip'.

"M. O. R. A. L. E. {the US Metahuman Organization for Registration, Aid and Law Enforcement} Special Agent Nightingale," she introduced herself. She knew SA Emmanuel Ndoumbe {aka Blindside} from some seminars two years ago when she was still a trainee. He was an easy-going fellow, working with the Unity Alliance's Human Smuggling division last time they had met. His power was physical invisibility.

"Gale," he grinned at her.

"Emmanuel," she gave a tight-lipped smile back. Normally if the UA was going to operate on someone's sovereign soil, they gave the local super-powered law enforcement a 'heads-up' first -- failing that, the highest level of Human law enforcement. Her people knew where she was and she'd received no such warning. "Why do you need to see the old guy?"

"Atticus Styx's name came up during a review of a CAH [Crimes Against Humanity] investigation," Special Agent Ndoumbe explained. "Until today we thought he had expired in your custody years ago, but then his Released From Confinement Notice came across our desks so here we are."

It was a believable lie. Had Atticus not already seeded her mind with conspiracy theories ...

"I'd like to see that paperwork," she insisted. The two investigators exchange brief, guilty looks.

"Events in this case are surprisingly relevant ... concerning one 'Red Dynamo'. We are moving on this as the case develops -- BEHIND YOU!" Blindside yelled.

Nightingale twisted, trying to keep all the possible combatants in sight. Blindside went invisible while his partner became incased in translucent, amethyst force fields. The armored suits all opened fire -- at Atticus. Energy beams penetrated the door and walls. Nightingale saw two beams hit Atticus in the chest, propelling him over the far bed, into the space between the wall bordering the room and the shower, and bed itself, out of sight.

'Gale' continued to spin, kicking the door so hard it went flying off its hinges and into the spot Blindside had just been in. The door hit -- something. Seconds too late, Brewster stepped into the vacant space. He lashed out, Nightingale blocked and then hissed in pain. Brewster's force field's edge was razor sharp. In fact ...

"You are Shard!" she growled. Shard was a known metahuman assassin fugitive from justice ... or had been before he disappeared three years ago -- reported deceased in a Unity Alliance raid.

Shard's power was to shift the edges of his force field to both make slashing strikes as well as cutting surfaces for his foes to strike against. Still, not every surface was sharp ...

"Good for you," he sneered. "All the more reason to make you dead!"

A flurry of punches and kicks came her way.

Nightingale blocked another painful blow -- dodging the rest. She was also worried why the armored suits had ceased firing as well as fearful for Atticus' well-being. The Old Guy hadn't been in an actual fight in seventy-nine years. Seven seconds later, Shard made an over-extended kick and she was able to toss him out of the room back out into the parking lot. She jumped behind the bed right after that before the other operatives resumed firing into the room.

She found Atticus lying on his back, smiling at her and holding a scorched ... Bible against his chest.

"What the ...?" she hissed. She was still hurting from her collisions with Shard.

"How about we go?" he inquired. She took his offered hand right before he snatched his jacket off the bed. Then they 'fell backwards' through the floor which was overshadowed by the bed. They were falling ... somewhere ... in the night sky.

"What? How?" she gasped.

"Among the other talents I'd picked up before they put me away, I had learned to teleport. Thus, I teleport," he explained casually.

"The ..." she activated her flight, turning their tumult into a clean trajectory.

"Bible. I opened a portal into the drawer the Bible was kept in and used it as makeshift armor. Layered paper is quite effective, ya know."

"I didn't see you do that," she scowled.

"The portal wasn't visible because you were on the wrong side of it."

"How did you open the portal in the first place?"

"Oh, come on now," he smirked. "I was kept under a 130 Megawatt dampener for fifty years. Their truck-portable model wasn't nearly enough to meet the challenge of shutting us down, or keeping us contained."

"Fine then ... where to now?"

"I am going to need a personal computer so that I can send some e-mails ... without you looking over my shoulder," he grinned with a perfect set of grey-white, granite-like teeth.

"If it is criminal, I can't help you," Nightingale sighed.

"It is criminal in that I am going to have to access the Dark Web and request services you might consider criminal from people who are most likely criminals already," he confessed.

"Couldn't you simply turn yourself in to the closest MORALE office and let us handle this illegal manhunt," she countered.

Just then her earpiece alerted her to an incoming call.

"Nightingale, what the hell is going on," the voice of Candid came over the device.

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently you took part in an attack on twelve UA agents who were seeking to interrogate one Atticus Styx aka Midnight's Son concerning his actions in an ongoing Crimes Against Humanity Investigation."

"Cut communications," Atticus cautioned. "We are being tracked." It was part of his vast criminal lore gathered at Copperhead coming into play.

"Candid, I have an issue," she told her mentor. "I'll call you right back."

"Night-," ended the conversation before Candid could even finish a single word.

"How sure are you about this?" Nightingale glared at Atticus.

"100%, now let's get moving to another location ... and another communication device."

"Alright ... evasion protocols. I don't have much in the way of cash and should avoid using credit cards ... so how do you suggest we legally get an infusion of cash?" she grumped.

"I will teleport us over to San ... the Tri-Cities. I recall where that is. We locate some ATM's -- you know criminals call them little banks born to be robbed?" he snickered so Nightingale thumped him in the chest.

Even through his thin clothing she could tell he had a far higher skin density than he had before exiting the Super-Max Prison.

"Don't say that," Nightingale admonished him.

"Fine ... we stop by a few ATM's, gather say $1000 and then head to the East Coast. You get an untraceable 'burner' phone and then I begin teleporting all over the New York Metro Area while you have that chat. How does that sound?"

"You know that many places in NYC?" she tried to catch him in a lie.

"A tiny number of places, but most of them have been built over, or torn down, though I still know what's called Time Square these days. Next I jump up to a thousand feet then make my hops. There aren't any skyscrapers over a thousand feet yet, are there?"

"Not anymore," she commented. 9/11 had been way before her time yet she could still see how the event haunted the 'Old Timers' in MORALE.

"Atticus, can you open an extended duration portal," she asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"No reason," she sighed. How many more people could have been rescued if only the Supreme Court and the Powers That Be decided to release him thirty years earlier and train him up in a Disaster Relief role? Instead he had been left buried under a mile of stone, rotting away for no goddamn good reason whatsoever.

In the Tri-Cities (the largest metropolis in the Americas) they had jumped around to various ATM's, gaining their 'Rush Money' until Candid called Nightingale again. Instead of answering it, she cursed her lack of caution and hurled the earpiece into the Bay. With her strength that was quite some distance. Only once they reached New York had Nightingale resumed communications with Candid.

"Nightingale, what the hell is going on with you? You are running around with a wanted fugitive and using evasion protocols. Turn yourself in."

"Who's the wanted fugitive?" she asked instead.

"Atticus Styx aka Midnight's Son," Candid simmered. "Is he holding you hostage?"

"As if -- I repeat, who is the wanted fugitive?"

"Styx. He initiated an attack against two UA metahuman operatives. A federal prosecutor has already approved both the Wanted Notice for Assault on Identified Law Enforcement Agents and approved the Extradition Request paperwork to Switzerland (UA HQ these days after it had quit New York two decades ago)."

"That's epically fast," Nightingale countered.

"This guy is a serious danger to World Stability."

"Since when ...," she then scrolled through her phone (not turned fully on since she entered Copperhead) and scrolled through the paperwork on Atticus she had been given this morning ... so long ago.

Candid began reading off some serious additions of fiction to Atticus' bio.

"So this is the 'blip' you sent me out to pick up this morning, Candid. This guy?"

There was a long pause then, "... no. What the fuck?"

"Something stinks to high heavens and I know if we hand Mr. Styx over to the UA, he'll never be seen again by any of us."

"Holy Shit ... Nightingale ... maintain course of action. Don't let Mr. Styx out of your sight and let's find out what the fuck is really going on about this. A blip this morning imprisoned for seventy-nine years doesn't turn over a new leaf and attempt to topple the New World Order by lunch time."

"Oh, and Candid, the showdown in Oregon included a 2-1/2 ton truck mounted dimensional anchor, twelve UA agents in power armor and ... oh yeah, two metahuman operatives including your old buddy Shard."

"UA reported him as deceased a few years back," Candid noted dryly.

"Well, he is alive and kicking and I have the abrasions to prove it."

"I'll rush a team out to Oregon to figure out what went down from that angle while putting another team together here ... with people I trust to start asking questions from this end," Candid continued. "You be in touch in twelve hours and we should have something by that time ... and some people at the UA had better start answering our questions, or they are going to see how quickly we can roll out our own roster of Wanted Notices. Candid -- out."

[***]

[MORALE NATIONAL HQ, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA]

"What's this request for nine operatives, eight technical specialists, and twenty field agents?" demanded Bozeman Washington, Deputy Director of Field Teams and Operatives Department at MORALE. Like most senior personnel at MORALE, he was an un-augmented Human Being, but one with a long history in law enforcement and Human-Metahuman relations.

"Nightingale is out there without any backup, guarding a ninety-six year old infirm former prisoner at Copperhead Super-Max," she began, "and we have a serious containment issue. Someone has gotten into our 'Most Secure' records and altered data."

"Altered data ..." Bozeman's brow furrowed. Considering MORALE had direct access to the Pentagon and the White House ...

"Thankfully I was trained by Shatterspike who always told me to make hardcopies of everything which crosses my desk ... and I did that this morning. Here is what crossed my desk from Copperhead last night. Here is what I pulled up an hour ago from our systems. There is no record of it being altered, or updated, yet clearly it has been."

Bozeman read over both copies ... which calling them contradictory was quite the understatement.

"The Sinister ... now that's a name I haven't heard in forever ... and what is the UA doing operating on US soil without my department getting notified?" he grew angrier. No one could accuse Assistant Director Bozeman of not being an ardent patriot. He held up his hand for silence and dialed three numbers on his internal line.

"Paula," he said to Paula O'Brien, Assistant Deputy Director of MORALE's Foreign Operatives and Visitation Department. The FOVD covered both foreign agents operating in the US as well as MORALE agents operating overseas.

"Why have to UA operatives been operating on our turf ... for the past nine hours and without my office having been notified ... oh and without Metahuman shepherding?"

"Nice to know," he responded to whatever she said, but then added, "I'm kicking this straight up to the Boss. I'm sure Champion will be damn curious about this 'slight' oversight of yours too," and then he slammed the phone down.

Candid did her best to hide her grin.

"What is on your mind concerning this, Candid?" he resumed talking to her.

"I haven't a clue yet, sir," she answered, "but I aim to find out. All I know now is that as the spotlights come out, the rats are going to start scurrying for the shadows."

"Good. Make sure we recreate a new personality profile of this ... Atticus Styx character and when can he and Nightingale come in?"

"Nightingale is currently going to resume contact in ... ten hours and fifty-three minutes. Our last contact was in New York ... but she was covering so much ground erratically, we have no idea where she might have been actually based out of."

"And Styx is a blip?"

All Candid could do was stare at her boss.

"Then what the hell is he?" Bozeman wondered out loud. No one wanted to use the word 'vortex' because those were usually nothing, but bad news.

"That's the most important question of all. Currently I am reacquainting myself with everything we have on the Sinister to figure where he figured in to it."

"The Rookie (Nightingale) has done good. You trained her, right?"

"Yes sir."

"Oh, what happened this morning?"

"My Sister's fiancé banged some stripper at his Bachelor's Party so she's called off the wedding. Freak accident."

"Look into it," Bozeman's brow furrowed once more. "One of my senior-most agents not showing up at Copperhead this morning as scheduled ... let's just say it worries me now."

"On it," she nodded then turned and left. As she did so, she heard Bozeman make another call.

"Get me the Boss ..."

[CANNES, THE FRENCH RIVERA THE NEXT DAY]

"Oh ... my ... God," the man remarked with a great deal of incongruity. "Atticus Styx. The real Atticus Styx. I never thought I would see you again before I passed into the void. I heard you were looking for me."

"I don't know you," Atticus responded warily. The man he was looking at was in his mid-thirties and was dressed as some sort of day laborer.

In response the stranger lowered his thick sunglasses and made eye contact with the near-centenarian. Atticus felt a pressure building up against his forehead. Before it diminished into nothing, he suddenly recalled a similar mental 'ping' decades ago. The man he was staring at was merely the vessel for the vast intellect which he was indeed looking for, though he had until that moment believed the hundred and something year old had already perished while Atticus had been incarcerated.

"Neverwhere?" Atticus whispered. The metahuman known as Neverwhere never conducted business in his own body, instead choosing to take over the minds of various innocuous people and having them risk their hides while conducting his affairs. To be fair, he paid them for their services -- and avenged their deaths.

"I haven't used that name since ... the 1970's," he laughed. "Yes, Kid, it's me. You look good for someone of your age and length of internment. Also, what are you doing with a MORALE agent here in Cannes?"

"Code."

"Steel."

"I have carried that countersign in my head since I received her letter back in 1945," Neverwhere said. "What does it mean? She told me to only use it on you. I am sure it had something to do with her twisted sense of humor."

"I don't know. She never explained it to me."

"Sounds like her too. Still, you are the only one of them left now. How can I be of service?"

"What do you think he is going to ask for? This could be highly criminal," Nightingale intervened.

"Ms. Nightingale," Neverwhere answered, "I am a fixer, broker, and top level fence. Criminality has never stopped me before. It certainly isn't going to stop me now ... with one of the few mutual friends I have left."

"He's your friend?"

"Atticus? No, but Red Dynamo was -- a good friend -- a very good one. I understand your side executed her while in custody. You killed her and the few friends we had in common ... and I resent that to this day. Imprisoning them wasn't enough for you and yours? If Atticus needs my help navigating the Grey, and Black, Web, I will help him. For a fee of course ... with a discount."

"Atticus, you can't trust this guy," she turned to her new companion.

"Trust him?" Atticus shrugged. "It is not a matter of trust, but business. He is a businessman, but he and Red Dynamo worked well together and that's enough of a recommendation for me."

"Neverwhere, you are bringing down a world of trouble on your head if you do this," she tried another angle.

"How bad?"

"Interpol and the majority of the Unity Alliance as far as we can tell. They have an extensive reach. This is likely to make you incredibly dead."

"Then it is going to be a damn steep discount. No need for money where I am going," Neverwhere chuckled.

"How do we start?" he asked and so it began. Within 24 hours, every 'dark' marketplace buzzed with the news as over a billion dollars in gold was divided, then subdivided again and again before being moved onto the numerous nefarious auction centers from Singapore and Dubai to London and the Tri-Cities.

Not only was the fortune valuable for its gold content, it was valuable as collectors' items. Even a few hundred Golden Double Eagles were worth a small fortune. After all, the US Federal Government had taken them all off the market fifty years ago. Even the Spanish Government showed interest in part of their history reappearing. Of course, Interpol was also highly concerned, but for different reasons. Reliable rumors had it some undetected criminal mastermind was creating a billion dollar War Chest ... and they wanted to know why.

Eighteen days later, in an understated villa in the south of France, they finally got to Neverwhere as well. As grimly predicted, this had been his final Grand Fence. Ever the atheist, he took his own, aging life even as operatives of the shadowy forces hunting Atticus -- and his money -- broke into the villa. Once his vital signs had been flat-lined for five minutes, the entire villa detonated in an explosion felt tens of kilometers away. He had already sold (at a steep discount), or given away all object d'art he was attached to and given the non-robotic servants & bodyguards the day off. The head of Interpol received his final, personal e-mail. It contained only one word.

CHECKMATE!

Since the female head of the international police agency wasn't a chess player, it took her a few minutes to recall the message's true importance -- the time/date stamp. In that instance when she was informed over two dozen of her agents were being blown to bits, or buried alive, in the south of France ... going after what she had been told was a 'third tier' player in the world of illegal financiering. From whom she had just received this enigmatic 'response'. Checkmate ... but to what?

The authorities would be days digging all the bodies out of the wreckage. Days more would be wasted interrogating his mortal staff (oddly enough it was only his chauffeur who had gone missing ~ and appeared to be un-locatable) and local contractors he had regular contact with. The deaths and demolition were to be attributed to a simmering international gang war between smuggling cartels in Egypt, Italy and France.

Already the Dark Web was abuzz with the truth though. Incredibly dangerous and damning data hardcopies -- the accumulated and updated secrets of the Underworld garnered since the late 1930's -- had been arriving at dozens of Intelligence agencies across the Globe and even more criminal enterprises all morning long -- a final gift of chaos and acrimony to the world from Neverwhere ... though he credited another entity. To the rest of the world ...

THE SINISTER WAS BACK IN ACTION!