A City Night - part 1
by Direwolf

The November sun was setting beyond the harbor, heralding another night in Patriot City. Through the city streets, people hurried home since everyone knew the streets weren't safe at night. The coming of Freedom Force had changed that somewhat, but along with the heroes had come other, more hostile entities. Once armed robbers were the worst things the citizens had to fear. No longer. In a city where giant robots demolished buildings, super powered criminals struggled for power and even huge ants had marauded, people knew the night held things more dangerous than a thug with a bat or gun. There was even a rumor that something like a demon had rampaged through the city only a few nights ago. There was a war going on for the heart of Patriot City and many of the battles in that war were fought at night...

Silver Scarab focused on the rock crystal disk in front of her, willing herself to see through its surface into its depths. The stone shone with a faint purple radiance that slowly pulsed in the dark room, like the beat of an inhumanly slow heart. The glow seemed to condense into ribbons of violet fire within the stone and fractured into tiny rainbows by the invisible cleavage planes in the crystal.

She took a shuddering breath as beads of sweat trickled down her face. The ribbons promptly shattered into the same diffuse glow.

"Damn, damn, damn," she swore, resting her head on the worn wooden table.

"Do not be so hard on yourself, Carlene Siller," a voice whispered in her mind. "A psimaster would spend years trying to calibrate a control stone. In only a few days you have managed to reach a stone that has been re-imprinted with a new control matrix. You will reach your goal, have no fear."

"But it seems so impossible, and every time I grab hold, it's like reaching for a soap bubble! It floats away whenever I grab for it."

"Then you must grab more slowly so as not to disturb it. Now attempt it again."

With a weary sigh, Silver Scarab gathered her mental energy to try once more. She understood why this was so important. The Voice of the Scarab had told her the history of this disk. It had been crafted thousands of years ago by an early human race that gave rise to the legends of Atlantis. Unlike Plato's idealized image, this hyperborean civilization had been despotic. Ruled over by an elite class called the Psimasters, they had used a series of massive crystals imprinted with mental energy to control the slave population of more primitive humans. Something had happened that the Voice chose not to elaborate on and the civilization had fallen over eight thousand years ago. This crystal had survived in Egypt, once a farming outpost of the Atlantians, where it had lain forgotten within the Great Sphinx.

Now the disk was hers and imprinted with Energy X.

This was a key component of her, or perhaps, the Voice's long-range plan and it could not be reproduced. The Voice indicated that the other crystals that were still in existence were either out of reach or guarded by something called "the Dragon Kings". She understood that. What she didn't understand was what had happened to the second canister of Energy X she had taken from Pinstripe's organization. It was simply gone from what she thought was a secure location, the safe she had found in the Federated Metals offices when they took over the abandoned buildings. But the last time she had opened the thick steel box, the canister wasn't there. Everything else was accounted for, the money she used to feed her gang and the artifacts she had stolen and chosen to keep. But there was no sign of the alien capacitor that was worth far more than everything else in the box.

She had no idea of where it had gone, and the Voice made no mention of it. And sooner or later, she knew the other members of the Alliance were bound to ask what had happened to it. The canister represented power and none of them were willing to forget about that. Hopefully when it came time to explain, she'd be able to.

But there was work to do now. She centered her mind, visualizing an extension of her brain reaching into the crystal to once again force the glow to condense. Her breathing evened out as a look of calm concentration formed on her face. The first shining ribbons reformed in the heart of the stone. Like seeds of ice in a freezing lake, more violet ribbons formed around them. Even the slamming of a nearby door within the old foundry didn't break her concentration.

The door slammed shut behind Joey the Jackal as he sauntered into the main foundry floor. This had become the primary living space for the Red Skorpions. Sunny and Hawk had restored the lights by simply flying up and stringing more cable through the steel roof beams and Croc's strength had been enough to force open the water lines so the bathrooms were working. The sand filled pits that had once held the massive crucibles used for melting scrap metal provided space for the Skorpions to pitch tents and cots. The wide expanse of the brick floor left plenty of room for them to park their motorcycles.

From one of the worktables, Croc looked up from his game of cards as Joey came in, noticing the grocery bags in Joey's hands. Croc smiled, displaying his no longer fully human teeth.

"Beer's here" he bellowed. From around the rooms, the gang members who were present raced towards Joey and his bags.

Joey quickly set the bags on another table and pulled out a single six-pack. As the rest of the gang moved in, Joey dodged around them with fluid grace. He wound up over by Croc who took out two of the bottles. Rather then look for a bottle opener, Croc simply pulled the caps off with his tough fingers.

"How'd it go?" Croc asked, then gulped down half the bottle in a single long swallow.

"Smooth as silk," Joey grinned with obvious good humor. "After she dropped us off, Sammy and I took a careful look around. That man is good; let me tell you, like he's got eyes in the back of his head good. We were careful, in and out with a minimum of noise and got the big purple guy out without causing no fuss."

Joey patted the case of picks and small tools he kept at his side. "They got a good workout. I tickled the locks and Sammy played lookout. Got to see him take out an overly alert guard. Did it with a tossed rock he just scooped up off the prison yard. Little bit of side arm and bang, the bull was down with a rock to the noggin. No noise like if he'd shot him. Slick work."

Croc nodded and popped open other beer. That was one problem with their new forms; it took a lot more beer to even get a buzz going. "Glad to hear it. So will she. She puts a lot of stock in this alliance of hers. Me...."

Croc paused and shrugged "...I think we should find a little out of the way part of South America and just take over. We could do it you know? And the weather would be great."

Joey didn't answer. The thought of spending the rest of his days lording over a small, unwanted patch of jungle didn't seem too attractive. He was too much of an urbanite to long for the restive life. This was the center of civilization in his book; this was where the power and opportunities were. He understood why Silver Scarab stayed in Patriot City despite the presence of Freedom Force and those loners like that Direwolf. This was the only place that really mattered.

"And he can't see it," Joey thought to himself. "Or the rest of the gang, either. I'll bet Scope understands..."

A sudden noise interrupted Joey's train of thought. There was always a steady, low rustle in the foundry these days, like someone kicking through piles of dry leaves far away. It was easy to ignore once you had been living in the place for a while, just like the lingering smell of heated metal that hung in the air. But for a moment, the rustle rose to a crescendo that stopped all conversation, and then fell off back to its lower, nearly sub-audible level. Everyone looked over to the far wall of the foundry. There, in a pool of shadows, there was a five-foot square wooden panel that led down to a small basement. When they first occupied the building, they explored the fifteen-foot square room down there but found nothing. The small basement was empty, so they left it alone. Now, everyone left it alone for another reason altogether.

Opening the trap door would have revealed a confusing image. In the dim light, the dark floor would seem to be only a few feet below the trap door. On closer examination, it looked as if some thick, dark restless liquid half filled the room, undulating with hidden currents while the rustling sound rose from the darkness. But if your eyes were sharp enough, you could see the truth. It wasn't a liquid at all. The room was filled with insects, spiders, centipedes and the like, all crawling over and through each other in restless unending motion. Most of them were roaches, of course, drawn from the crevices and cracks in the old building.

Bugs lay at the bottom of the living blanket, his eyes open and unseeing. He was listening to the whispering hiss of the movement around him, of the slide of carapaces and legs over each other in an unending dance. He was sure there were words in there as well, or perhaps the notes of a song. If he could just hear it clearly, then he would understand. And in understanding would come power.

At times, the words or notes came clearer and he picked up parts of the message, enough to see some of what he needed to do and how to do it. Like when the voice told him about the cylinder in the safe and how to get it. His wolf spider, now the size of his outstretched hand, had hidden itself in Scarab's office and told him the numbers of the combinations. A few roaches under his direction had squirmed under the office door and unlocked it from the inside by crawling into the door's lock. Then he had simply walked in while Silver Scarab was out and the rest of the Skorpions were asleep; no one crept more quietly then a spider, after all. It was a simple matter to open the safe, take out the canister and bring it back to his lair. It was in the corner safely hidden under the living blanket. The crawling things seemed to like being in proximity to the silver object as if sensing the power it held.

Bugs wasn't sure what the canister was going to be for but he knew it was important to keep it safe until the song told him what to do. And so he waited, the crawling hosts engulfing his skin, and listened with all his senses.

As time passed, some of the creatures moved away from Bugs' influence while others joined in. The seething mass never emptied away, in fact it seemed to grow slightly in thickness and activity as time passed, as if building towards some flash point.

At the edge of the mass, a single roach broke free. The thumb sized insect scuttled through a crack in the trap door and marched across the foundry floor like a tiny living tank. Propelled by its instincts, the roach consumed the fragments of food it encountered as it moved in its looping path. It was full night by the time the bug moved outside the building and scuttled on down the street. A sewer grate beckoned and the roach headed for it. The storm sewer grate was right in front of one of the only businesses still open at this hour of the night, a small store called the Late-night Mart that sold a few groceries and a fair amount of cheap liquor.

Light spilled out from between the bars of the rusty steel grate that covered the pebbled glass window across the front of the establishment. The roach skirted the pool of light on its way to the sewer. It never made it. With only a few feet to go, the insect was crushed as a black metal boot descended on it accidentally with a faint ring of steel on pavement.

Carlo was scared. The two large men in tailored suits had sauntered into the Late-night Mart about ten minutes ago and quickly run off his only customer. One of them, a hulking bruiser with a scarred nose, took a stance by the door with his arms crossed over his chest and a look of smug satisfaction on his face while the other closed in on the frightened clerk.

"My partner and I are in the insurance biz," the dapper crook said, trimming his nails with a switchblade. "We are approaching you and your fellow merchants to see who is wise enough to buy a policy."

"Don't want no trouble," Carlo stammered.

"Who said anything about trouble?" the man asked, smiling wide and showing very white teeth. "Lou, did you hear me say anything about trouble?"

"No way, Jack," the slab of meat by the door said from under his fedora, shaking his head.

"You see," Jack said. "That's why you need insurance, so nothing bad happens to your establishment. Like this, say."

With a casual brush of his arm, Jack knocked the magazine rack over. It clattered loudly to the floor, scattering magazines. Carlo jumped.

"Now I have it on good authority you used to be insured with Blue Belly Collections, but the cops went all goody two shoes. So you aren't paying anyone. My organization is ready, willing and quite able to pick up the slack and make sure your business isn't lacking this vital coverage. Even if you shop around, you won't find a better bargain than we offer, my friend."

The blade flashed bright silver in the light, leaving a line of crimson across the back of Carlo's hand. He recoiled with a cry of pain

"I just want to make sure we understand each other to avoid any future unpleasantness," Jack smirked as he cleaned the blood of his knife on a handkerchief. "Now, shall we talk about policy options and prices?"

The door to the shop opened.

"Closed for now!" Jack called, not looking back over his shoulder. He was sure Lou could handle anyone trying to muscle in.

A strangled yell followed by a loud thump sounded from the doorway.

"What the..." Jack snarled as he turned around.

A seven-foot tall armored form sheathed in black metal stood in the doorway, a sledge hammer in one hand. The figure turned slightly sideways so the massive shoulders would fit through the door and entered the store. Jack was sure the room somehow shrank.

"You must not have heard. The Devil's Kitchen is under the protection of Cold Iron. I'm not about to swap crooked cops for more crooks who don't even hide behind a brass badge."

The voice echoed hollowly from inside the armored suit but Jack heard the raw malice in the words. Panic swelled in his chest, a need to fight or run. And the doorway was blocked.

With a wild snarl, Jack dropped his knife and drew a snub nosed .38 from his impeccably tailored coat. He got off three shots. All of them hit Cold Iron square in the chest and glanced off with high-pitched whines. Then the armored man was on him and ripped the gun out of his hand. Jack felt a couple of fingers break as well.

"You crooks are just plain dirt-stupid," Cold Iron rumbled. Effortlessly, he lifted Jack by the collar and carried him out of the store. "Sorry about the mess, Carlo."

His hand a mass of pain, Jack dangled helplessly in Cold Iron's grip. He knew kicking would be more than worthless. He might actually succeed in making the armored man mad. He noticed Lou lying nearly across the street in a crumpled heap. It was easy to figure out what had happened, Cold Iron had opened the door and simply tossed the hulking Lou aside like an apple core.

"Who are you working for?" Cold iron snapped.

"Nuts to you!" Jack countered. At least these hero types always played by the rules.

Cold Iron shook him, and Jack felt a wash of pain sweep up his arm from his injured hand. He gritted his teeth and took it.

"Fine!" the armored man snarled. He tapped his hammer lightly on Jack's fingers. This time, Jack howled in pain.

"If you don't open up and tell me what I want to know, I'm going to pulp each of your joints to send a message to your boss, whoever that might be! He worth that to protect?"

Jack suddenly realized that whoever Cold Iron was, he didn't play by the same rules as Freedom Force. Jack started talking and didn't shut up until the whole story was out. It came back to Pinstripe. The gangster's organization had taken some deep hits, both financial and to their prestige as a result of tangling with Freedom Force. So the word had gone out to find more sources of money. When Jack read about how the 16th Street precinct had cleaned up its act, he figured there was a lot of untapped potential for protection money and if they didn't get it, someone else would. He'd been signing up ‘clients' for three days and was ready to bring the list back to his Capo, Carl Torrelli.

"Well, I think I'm going to have a little talk with Carl so he understands what is what down here." Cold Iron shook Jack one last time for emphasis then dropped him to the pavement. "Where are we going to find him?"

Knowing he was thoroughly beaten, Jack cradled his injured hand and looked down. "He should be over at Napoli in the private back room."

A prod of the icy cold hammer forced Jack to his feet. "Walk!"

With a last look at Lou slumped unmoving on the pavement, Jack started walking. He knew that by the time he came to, Lou would be stripped down to his shorts. His wallet, watch, and three hundred dollar suit would be long gone. On the other hand, Jack got to take Cold Iron back to his boss and explain why the Devil's Kitchen was off limits to Pinstripe's organization. Right now, Jack sort of envied Lou.

As they passed one of many apartment buildings along the rout, a sudden flair of purple light shown through a window, startling both Jack and Cold Iron.

"I wonder what that was?" Cold Iron muttered.

Jack had no answer, but Cold Iron didn't seem inclined to stay and investigate. He urged Jack into motion again.

The walk seemed to last forever, yet still be far too short. Jack found himself in an alleyway looking at the lighted front of Restaurant Napoli. Waiters in long white aprons were circulating among the green wrought iron tables that spilled out from the restaurant onto the paved patio as late night diners enjoyed the famous Italian food Napoli's offered.

"He's in the back," Jack said, "Behind the door marked private."

"Good enough," Cold Iron growled.

Jack hardly felt the blow to the back of his head that knocked him unconscious.

The blow jarred faintly up Lewis Franklin's arm. He pulled his punch, not wanting to pulp the man's head. Though in truth, part of him wanted to do just that. Who knew how many crimes the man had committed? And by leaving him alive, he was bound to commit more. Lewis considered that briefly as he stepped out of the alley and started towards Napoli. Many of the patrons screamed in panic at the sight of him, but they all got out of his way. Lewis wasn't surprised, the glossy black armor he wore shone like polished obsidian. To add to the ominous appearance, he triggered a relay in his armor that was linked to the sledgehammer he carried. The heat sinks powered up, and a cold blue nimbus flickered from the head of the hammer.

"No, I don't want to see the take out menu!" he bellowed as he squeezed through the door. Lewis grinned to himself, there was something about putting on the armor that just changed his personality, he could do and say things from inside the black shell that he would never dream of doing on his own. But right now, there was work to do, even if he enjoyed it.

There was a heavy wood door with a brass plate at the back of the restaurant. Two guys who could have been twins for the man he tossed out of Carlo's store flanked the door, each with a look of nearly comic surprise on their face. Lewis knew that wouldn't last. They were all Pinstripe's elite soldiers and wouldn't be frozen with inaction for long. And if they started shooting, other people might get hurt.

"So, let's make it the real thing," he thought, channeling a bit of power from the suit's magnetic field generators through the modified hammer. Beams of blue white light lanced from the head of the hammer and each of the guards was suddenly sheathed in a shell of ice. Lewis knew that in a matter of moments, the ice would crumble enough for the men to break free before hypothermia could set in. But it kept them out of the way for now, and the look of "this can't be happening" on their face was priceless.

He kicked the door in.

Inside was a meeting room with over a dozen men present, sitting around a table covered in piles of paper. Lewis figured the one at the head of the table in a simple elegant charcoal gray suit had to be Jack's Capo, Carl Torrelli. He was the only one who didn't jump to his feet and reach for a gun.

The man closest to Torrelli fired, the automatic in his hand bucking. The bullet glanced off Lewis's chest, leaving a bright smear of gray lead on the black armor, only recently annealed by Lewis father from the lacerations inflicted by the Janus demon.

Torrelli punched the gunman in the stomach before he could fire again.

"No shooting!" he roared. "Don't you idiots read the papers? You might as well throw garbanzos at him; at least they won't hurt us when they bounce off!"

Lewis found himself unexpectedly impressed. Carl Torrelli obviously was smart and knew how to control his men. This didn't look like it was going to be a brawl. He suddenly suspected this wasn't going to be as easy as intimidating Jack.

Once all the other gangsters had lowered their guns, Carl stood up, reflexively straightening his suit coat as he did so. He inclined his head in a slight nod of respect.

"Mr. Iron, I gather you have some issue to take up with us. I'd offer you a chair but I don't think they are any meant for a man of your...stature. But please, tell us why you are here and let's see if we can work something out." Carl sat back down with his hands clearly in sight on the table and a look of interest on his face.

Lewis paused to collect his thoughts. "One of your boys was shaking down the shopkeepers in Devil's Kitchen, guy named Jack. He's outside nursing a cracked head and a couple of busted fingers. Shakedowns in the Kitchen aren't a good idea. Stopped the crooked cops from doing just that. Not going to stand by and see another flock of vultures come in for the leavings. Your people come back, they leave in ambulances or boxes!"

Carl nodded politely, apparently not even reacting to the ‘vultures' crack or the open threat. He turned to the man beside him who was still massaging his punched stomach.

"Vince, what's the story?"

"Sounds right, Boss. Jackie said he was working a deal that would bring in some more money and he always liked the protection racket."

"Never said to go into the Kitchen, did I?"

"No," Vince agreed. "But you did say we needed to find new opportunities and without the cops to compete with, well, it looked like an easy money maker."

Carl nodded again in understanding.

"My apologies, Mister Iron. The Devil's Kitchen falls within that part of the city I have been tasked by my boss to control, so I'll make sure all my men know it's off limits. Any one of our boys tries to shake down one of your people, pulls a heist, or even drops a candy wrapper on your turf, you let us know and we put a stop to it. Fair enough?"

Lewis nodded. "Works just fine."

"Before you go, there is a matter that we can discuss, one that should benefit your ...community and help me as well."

"I'm listenin'."

"We have certain merchandise that we need to find buyers for..."

Inside his armor, Lewis snarled. "No drugs! Don't need that crap messing up any more lives!"

Carl held up his hands. "I'm not talking drugs, we don't deal in that junk. I'm talking food. The docks are under my jurisdiction and the Longshoremen wind up with a lot of stuff that falls off pallets, is mislabeled, gets forgotten, you name it. Right now, it mostly gets dumped. But what if we work a deal? Sell it to the merchants in the Kitchen for pennies on the dollar. They can sell it cheep to the locals and still turn a profit. They get a good bargain and we make a little cash on the deal and don't have to toss the goods in the river or pay to have it hauled to Jersey."

"What kind of stuff we talkin' about?"

"Mostly canned goods, sometimes crates of vegetables and stuff like that." Carl shrugged. "It really is pot luck, whatever gets left on the dock. You interested?"

Lewis silently considered the offer. As hard as he looked at it, he couldn't see any downside and it sure would help the people stuck in the Kitchen. There was one universal truth among them, money was always tight. "Deal. I'll have a couple of locals come by, TJ and Shades who can help with the distribution."

"Sounds good," Carl responded. "Figure we'll have stuff every couple of days. Sometimes a lot, sometimes not much. I make no promises what we can deliver but your people get rights of first refusal."

Carl stood up and extended his hand.

Cold Iron met him half way. The two of them shook hands.

"Sorry about the door," Cold Iron called as he walked out.

To be continued...