When Heavy Hitters Hit Home

Sleep. It was the leveler of every man, be they rich or poor, righteous or full of sin. No matter the circumstances, everybody had to sleep and that included those who were on the clock. But even the tick-tock of time’s icy scythes would not stir a single figure that lay back in the front seat of his car. He should not sleep. When on the job, especially one like this, it is never good to turn away one’s eyes. Every cadet, police officer and detective knew that. Late eyes led to early tombstones.

“Cervantes? Cervantes come in?”

The crackle of the sing song voice echoed throughout the car like the stab of thousands of tiny needles poking starlight through the sheet of blackness over his eyes. The grizzly, stubble chinned detective slowly stirred. His muscles twinged away, his joints cracked and his heavy eyes began to flutter. He was the dead coming to rise…all because of an angel’s voice that weaved in through the crackling static of a radio.

“Cervantes!”

“Yeah, yeah,” the bear of a detective growled as he stirred awake, his hands grasped the radio receiver, the connection back to the brains back at HQ. Blindly he brought the radio up and clicked. “Cervantes here.”

“Detective, were you sleeping?”

“Course not, just taking my lunch break,” the detective lied.

One white lie didn’t mean a hill of beans these days. Everybody lied. It was the bread and butter of civilization. Those that did were seen as the outcasts, as people who were looked at with oddity and sneered at for being too pious or saw themselves as above everyone. Truth was no longer a sign of virtue, it was the brand of a pariah. The detective was not going to have his skin burned.

“What can I do for you?”

His voice was slightly surly, the type of irritation that comes with interrupting a good dream or rousing an already belligerent wild animal. A rough, calloused hand rubbed over prickly hairs on his chin and throat as he sat up with an audible groan. His short, dark hair, speckled with gray here and there, showed the hard life and the catching age of a man with a dangerous job.

And this man definitely had a dangerous job. Power, people lusting or unable to control power was his specialty. He dealt in stopping or calming them and that is always a dangerous position to be in. After all, was it not someone who said that was better to stand aside from the Devil’s path rather than be in his way? The detective would only smirk at this comment though and state that there was always a third option.

Punch him in the face.

The crackling voice responded.

“Quiet night detective. Any cages being rattled?”

Jorge smirked and shook his head, his eyes glanced out the car windows. He looked over the towering monoliths of steel and glass, the guardians of the city that held the deepest of secrets and made the largest statements. Right now though…they were silent. And silence for too long was never a good thing.

A click of the radio and he replied. “Somewhere they are. Just gotta wait and see what bird starts squawking first.”

“Wait, what was the call?”

“Possible homicide. Party goer, said things got too exciting.”

“Shouldn’t that be vice’s problem?”

“Normally, but this one is right up MRC’s alley.”

“Better hope it’s not a gutterball.”

The detective drove fast and hard, his sirens blaring, casting splotches of red and blue light that painted the drab buildings around him. For moment the city looked very patriotic, first one building red, then the other blue, and the pattern switched over. But the detective knew the truth behind this rotten apple that was New York. In its shadowy alleys and dark corners beat the hearts of the worms that wanted only to devour their way into its core. They were the people he was out to arrest, to bring to justice, and right now he was on one of those calls.

He was going to stop for no one.

Operator called, said that some panicked party goer called screaming about a man being killed in some dance club. No personal name, no name of the establishment, not even an address was uttered before she was suddenly silenced on the line. Operator had to trace the call to a cellphone that was somewhere within the district the detective now drove towards. What silenced her, he did not know. Obviously someone who wanted to keep the incident, or the location, quiet. That could only mean one thing…

The worms were feeding again.

The detective rounded the nearest location that the operator could trace to before the caller hung up. So far, in the shadows nothing looking truly amiss, but there had to be something. His car slowed to a crawl like creature on the prowl as he peered out, past that thin divider of glass that separated him from the outside world. The claws of the city could not touch him and he was glad for that.

Still there had to be something, some clue for him to follow. If someone died and people were being ejected…that could only mean one there…there had to be people. A crowd somewhere. With that logic he kept his eyes peeled for someone…anyone out looked out of place.

Nymphs leap out of water, Angels fall from Heaven, but whoever heard of a Dame stumbling out of an alley. The screech of the tires, the smell of rubber burning, the tunnel vision of seeing that mass of blonde hair, all of it bombarded Jorge Cervantes’ senses as his foot fell heavily onto the peddle that urged the lumbering beast on four wheels to a stop. He then felt the thud, saw the draped shape over the hood and the shocked look.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” the detective muttered as he unsnapped his seatbelt, pushed open the door and leapt out.

As he ran around to the front of the vehicle, he peered closely at her, did not see any serious surface wounds, then glanced into the alley from which he came. He did not know what possessed her to do that, but as he looked, he watched the shape of another female running away. It was not long before she turned a corner and disappeared into the enveloping shadows of the city.

Jorge shook his head before he turned his attention back to the broad who clung to his car like a hitchhiker desperate for a ride.

“Miss? Are you okay?” he asked.

The sultry dame with the red clad curves and the golden locks of hair made her look more sin than sweet. Did she work these streets? Was she just at the wrong place at the wrong time? He could see that. When working vice, where were many times when these ladies of the evening would wind up dead or injured because they took on the wrong clientele or happened to just wander into the wrong street during the worst of all possible times. Still though, there was something classy about the broad. She looked out of place, like a paper doll taped onto the wrong background in a kid’s book.

What was her story? And who ran away from her?

Gently he spoke again as he tried to help her up straight from his car’s hood. “Ma’am, talk to me. What happened to you? Who was running away?”

>> "You hit me with your car."[/color]

I see that! Next time don’t throw yourself out of the alley like that, or at least that is what the detective wanted to say.

If there was one thing that Jorge did not like was being having the blame put on him for things that were not his fault to begin with. It is always easy to throw one’s self in front of a moving vehicle and claim that there was no fault in it for yourself. The world was filled with people like that. Cynical opportunist who wanted nothing more than to sue some city department for however many greenbacks they could get from them. Jorge had dealt with them before and right now, at the moment this woman seemed like just another one of those opportunists.

Then, from that angelic voice came the words that captured his focus.

>> "And the lady running away burned a hole through some guy's face."

Jorge shook his head as he turned to look back down the alley. So, dispatch had been correct, this was right up the alley for the MRC detective. Another look towards the woman and he was caught in a dilemma. There was an injured civilian…but also there was a runaway mutant. He shook his head as he carefully sought to the blonde in red first.

“Stay here, I’m going to call for an ambulance to come check you out. Don’t move!” he shouted this over his shoulder as he ran off to where he last saw the other woman. With his free hand he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1 to send an ambulance to this address. Once he was done he continued down the alley.

The detective ran, his swift footfalls echoing in the alley like the rhythmic drumbeats of a dark heart hidden away in the shadows. The sound was a distraction and drowned out the sound of his own heartbeat in that thudded in his ears. Slowly he removed his gun from the holster, that weapon of cold and yet comforting metal that felt heavy in his hands yet promised salvation should he ever find the need to use it. If there were one thing that were true about cops, their guns were their guardian angels.

As the detective moved further down the alley, he paused when he looked at walls and saw smoldering hand prints burned into the concrete. In shock he stared at them but dared not touch. He cautioned another look down the alley where the squad car was, then turned the corner, seeing more smoldering handprints. He could follow the breadcrumbs to find the witch.

What was the game? Why did the woman run? The angel in red had told him with their other girl is where the problem was. Normally the detective wanted more to go on but running, in his book, usually meant guilt. That added with the strange hand prints, the squawking that someone had died in a local club, it all only added more and more nooses around the runner’s neck. The detective was not going to let her get away. Whatever her problem was, whether she was running for the right or wrong reasons…he needed to talk to her.

On nights like this Jorge hated the sly back alleys and alcoves of the city. The veins that pumped the poison of illegal substances and activity out from the very heart of the city could all hide just as many secrets. It was easy to get lost here, to disappear through one way, only to find your way out but be a completely changed person. Jorge, as he stalked this maze, little more than a rat, prayed that such a fate would not befall him.

Heh…prayer. The last desperate actions of a desperate man.

He saw the burning handprints on brick. He feared being any person on the wrong end of that slap or handshake.

Another corner turned and another glowing handprint. They seemed to be growing fainter. His gun aimed directly in front of them, the detective moved on, checking his blind spots, straying a second longer on darker than pitch shadows and around hidden corners. She had to be somewhere…that brunette he saw run away, the woman with the Devil’s handprint.

His eyes pierced and searched the night as he stepped lively, his only company the sound of his own breathing.

“Come on, doll, where’d you scamper to?” he muttered as he came to another corner and cautioned and slow glance within. There he saw her, crying, leaning against a brick wall and smoldered under her pressed hands. He very carefully stepped in, gun still raised. “Come on, babe. I know your behind the eight-ball right now. But let’s talk this out…”

Jorge spied the young woman, the tearful eyes, the fearful look at her hands, she reminded him of Macbeth. Out, out damned spot. She had done something wrong. She had the guilty look in her eyes of a woman on the brink, a woman who committed an unforgivable sin. One needed to be told or she would keel over from the pressure.

Another step closer and the woman finally seemed to take notice of him. Gun still out, he careful pulled that cold, pointing figure to the side, as to keep her calm. The last thing the dame needed was more pressure on top of the guilt that already sat so comfortably on her weighed down shoulder. Her wild eyes watched him cautiously as she began to scramble onto her feet. He still made no sudden moves, but that gun would not be disappearing any time soon. The sight of those charred hand marks…the way she looked at her hands…he could put two and two together.

“Listen, I’m a cop. The wires say that you blew one down in some hidden away night club,” he said as he watched the nervous and terrified look on her face. “If it was accidental…maybe I can help.”

The flatfoot spoke as calmly as he could. There was no need to agitate the woman further. Instead he carefully raised his hands to show he was no thread. With that, he slipped it back into its holster. To most this would have seemed like the daft move. The man had recoiled his one defense, he hid away the one thing that had always been there to protect him…but that was not entirely true. Another agent was nearby, another guardian angel that was always there, ready to appear at his beckoning.

It pulled at his gut, the nearby sources of water. The puddles, the filled jars or leaking pipes. He knew his back up there should the occasion call for it.

Another step and he eyed the woman close, both his hands up to show that he meant her no harm.

“We can barber this out? You need to tell me though, what happened? Are you gifted? Did you lose control? Are you being framed? I’m here to help you, not automatically throw you in the big house. You need trust me though.” he said calmly as he edged closer, the waters at the ready should he need to call them. “What happened?”

>> "Don't make her say anything."

It was not the singing that he was looking for. The detective was confused for a second. That same angelic voice he heard once before that suddenly materialized and haunted him like the wisps of smoke from some decanter. He Turned to glance behind and there she was, the fallen angel in red. Why was she here? He gave her an order to wait for the ambulance and she blatantly chose to follow him instead. Was the dame looney? She was going to get herself further injured, or killed for that matter!

He turned to protest, her soft voice choked back by the pain that clenched her insides. She was going to need a med, someone who knew how the body worked to make sure she was heal from running into his car. But it seemed she knew more about what was going on then she first let on.


>> "Come on, sweety, just ride it out.. Don't say nothing. They'll cut you down…They'll bump us both."


Ride what out? What’s going on here? the detective was about as lost as a blind man in the middle of a desert.

It was obvious that the woman knew something about what was going on. Was the mutant he attempting to talk down playing victim to some illegal substance? Mutants not in control of their senses was a bad combination, but there had to be more to this. The detective was about ready to ask. He needed the whole story, not some watered down version said between bosom buddies to keep each other out of through. If the angel in red was definitely involved then he needed to know and now.

“You,” he said as he addressed Red. “I told you to wait back there. You’re injured.” he said warily before he turned back to the fearful mutant. “Listen, I’m only here to help…”

>> "No!"

She lunged. He saw those hands, those delicate palms with the thin, frail looking digits. The same type of hands that cradled children, plucked flowers, and wrote in pretty handwriting…also had what looked like scorched brick, mortar and other unknown materials. In that second, the flash from the handprints all up and down the alley flooded into his mind and the experience detective could do the only thing he could…rely on his own uniqueness. It was too late to redraw his gun, and he felt her coming straight at him.

Quickly he attempted to dodge, a simply side step, just enough to lean out and give her room to run by. But even as he did his, his tie flew out and acted the hero itself. It fluttered like the panicked wings of a bird as it dared to oppose her hands…and it lost. Within seconds, he watched as she grabbed a hold of his tie brief and he cause that sudden whiff of burning material. She was holding on and he knew any second she would drag him down..

A quick flick of his wrists and Jorge opened his palm wide towards her. A torrent of water from a nearby gutter spewed forth like a sick person, sending a rush of water straight for his “attacker”. The water struck hard, enough to knock her hands loose of his tie, but not without a side effect. As soon as the water touched her hands, they sizzled and bellowed in steam and sizzle that fluttered off into the air. The detective coughed as the sudden steam and staggered back, eyes watchful for either woman and what would have to be done to either save, or bring them both in.