Smalltime (Part Seven)

the Finale
 
You awoke alone.
You were well aware how you had awoken alone in the circumstances that you did; that was of your own doing. Funny, because it wasn’t like you had any choice in the matter. It’s just who you are. It’s your curse. Not that it matters to me, anyway.
So there you were, having just awoken, all by yourself. Putting your inherent curiosity to good use, you decided to inspect this new vessel you had so haphazardly acquired. You’d assumed control of nobody special; definitely not one of your henchmen, but from his rugged exterior it may as well have been; the scar across his face, the hulking posture, all contributing to the idea that you seem to have a knack for the manipulation of such shady-looking characters, be it direct or indirect.
Now knowing what the body you found yourself in looked like, you decided to find out what it could do. First was the brute strength, as was evident by the inherent muscle density of this fellow; the one problem was that this body didn’t seem to have so strong a heart. It wouldn’t be very long until it’d give out. Second was the ability to disappear. This would prove quite useful to you, very much so, in your search for him.
Yes, him. The Ringer. He killed your mother, and would have killed you had you not been endowed with the ability to transfer your consciousness in situations like the one you had just been put through. Of course, that ability could only happen so many times before your mental state deteriorates and you’re confined to one body. But you didn’t know, and you didn’t care. All you had to worry about was your quest, which began the moment that buckshot blasted its way through the only person that ever cared about you.
Not that it matters to me, anyway.
 
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Ț̨̧̖͙̝H҉̧͍͔͈͕E̲͖͇͡͞ ̶͍̬̫̼̭͎̰͟R̟̖̝̹̘I͝҉̠̳͖̮Ṉ̛̪̣͎̮̗G̯͔̟̗̯͔̭͓ͅER̻̯͙͙̱̹͘͡ ̳̥̟̙̯ͅth̵̶͔̮̯̠͕͠  e͔̭̦̘͇̼̼͓͢ͅ ͚͖͇͇̻̩ŗ͉͓̬̠͔i̪̳͔̫͍̝͎ͅǹ̨̛̪̙̹̳̥̜g͍͔e̶̪͓̰̫͙̙͘̕r %̠͔̼̟̝̭̙͟ ҉̫̭r̠̳̟̳̮͇̯̪i̶͖̲͈̗̲͔̰͎̘ǹ̞͇͟͟g̱͉̪͎̮̙͉̰͢͝ͅe̴̳̘͖̪͔͘r҉͙͙̫̼ ̶̛̺̦̖͓̬͚̣̰F҉̢̤I̖̬̻̱͔̕͡N҉̴̨͉̞̙̻̳     D̮̟̬̺̥̺ ̛̹̗͉͖̤͟ͅͅḤ̞̪̲̘̭͉I̶̦̳͝M̶͙̠̠ ̰̹̜̞f̛͔͖i̧̛̺͜n͍̦̳̻̕͟ͅͅd͏͚̹̜ ͔̩̹̠̙͓͍̦ț͖̺̘̯̩̺͙      h̞͎̳̞͝e̕͏͇̭̞%̦̠̯͙%̴̼͞ ̛̻̦̫͝R͓̗̖̦͎i̷̞͇̦̣͎͘n̛͓̯̯̩g̢͈͎̱e̵̟̲͈͈̪̦͖͜͟ͅr̩͇͖̙̻̻̯̠̦ ̬̮F͖͕̦̻͍̘̜̣͢I̶̻̬̮̭̥͈̬͙N̘͟͟͡D̕ ̴̸͎̲͉͖̰̩͔̰       T̜͘H̡̡̨̰̜̩E͏̱̘̜̦̬̞͚̯ ̬̺̤̟̭͢͡F̢̜͠U̡̠̘͓̜͢C̢͈͇̥̦̱̕K̢̙̮͚̱̳̲̺I҉̲͉͓̱̳NG̭̣̠̞̙̝̹͘͜ ̴̟̭̲R̷̸͚͈̳̗̥̞͕̣I̶̛̦̦̱͍̺͜N͕̫̣̘̩̝͍̗̕ͅG̻̺̦̰͖͚͢E̴̘̯͍̼̮̙̭̘R̜͓͈̜̀͘ͅ
̖͙̫̺̩͚̹̠W̡̹̼͓͙͟͢H̞̩͈̘̯͙͘͘͠ͅE̪͇̗͔̯̘̦R̪̦̟E̲͓̫͕̙̝̞ ̢̱̳͢͜I͞҉̟̻S͇͓͓̬̼̬̪͓ ̱̥H͏͈͚͈͜       E͎̘͘ ̞͇̹t̷͈̠͎͜͟ͅh̬̰̮͉̱͈̳͞͝e̲̬̝̠̯ͅͅ%̷̭̠̖͚͝ ̨͉̱̻̹̪̭̱R̦̭͖Į̯͡N̻̤̰̥̝͖̹GÈ͓̮̩͚̪̳͜͞ͅR̛̜͕̝ ̺͎̻w̶̘̭͉͉̠̩͈͔h͕̬̝͕̪͘͘e̡̠͈̮͔͡͡ͅré̠̣̱͔̤̟̻̦́   %̦̙̩̰ ̧̞͍Ị̺̟̦͙̣̲͢S̷̨̗͎͕̬̦̣̻ͅ ͇̰͍͇̞͖t͏̠͎h̢͚͍̱̦̯è̙͚̘̼̦̮͝ ͉̩̭͡r̪͖͕͎͇̕i̟͖̙n͏̙̘͎̘̜̻́       g̵̼̥e̛̯͔̰̪̗̬̥̬̟r̟̙̤̭̕͡͡ ҉҉̡͕̦̲̥͓̟MU̶̥Ş̷͖̬̟͇͓̣Ṭ̞̼̤͎̘̟ ̡̝̺̹̗̞̙ͅ        %̹̝͍͓͎̘͕̫%̢̯̲F̵̛͙̗̤̭̱̳͚ͅI҉͈̗̘͇̦͓̀͟ͅN̩͎̦̜̳̫͡D̴̩̺̳͈͍͔ ̧̲̭Ḩ̡͓̗̹͖͎̯̖̙̣͜Į̹̝̼̥̣̠͢M̖̦̞̙̥̯͜͞ͅ
̣͈̙̭́͠P̛̣̠͉̗̤̹̹͞R̢̙̗̥̫̺̠͖͘Ḭ̢̱̦̭̝̮̖͉S͍̙͔͚̖̕͢Ó̦̣͈͉̥̱̜̤N̢̻͙͙͙̬̕͘ ̨̨̻͇͕̦̫̜̖̲̀ŗ̦͉i̴̷͈̟n̩̤͖̥͙̰̜̲g̼͍̤̗̭̖̀é͚̙̲͙͉͢r̜͍̫̝̘͜ ̧̜̬̙̮͝j̛͎͎̼̯̳̥̗ à̮̝̰͞i̛̼̥̤͕̻̣͓l͏͚̻̮̫͙̦̪ ҉̵̟̳͔̟̜͕̘̮j̳͍̩͔a̱i̶̢͎͎̗̠̕l̴͟͏̬̝̦%̢̘̤̕͝%̝͍̜̘̞͚͔ ̢̡̳͜t͜͝͏̦̞̝̝        ŗ̼̰a̷̩͖̲̦̳͉͍̟̹͢p̵̹͈̣̟̜͚̀͘p͏̫͈̪̞̰̦̜̩̖e̡͙̣͈̝͙̞̯d̴̝̟̩͕͍̻ ̧͠҉̟̝f̡̢̯̼͚̞̮͚̗̳́i̧̝̤̜̣͘n͚̼        d͕͓̭̭̀͞ ̡͓͉͉̳̱͘͢t̺̩̤̱͉̟̜̫̯͠h͔̼̭̱̲ę͎̙̗̯̠͕ ̹̺̬̕P̵͙̫͚̪̼͟R͏̞̱͚IS̛̝̭̱͡Ǫ̢̞̼̗̹̯͉͚̘N̯̞̣͍̺͖͈̯ͅ ̟͕͘f̦͙͓̫̟́͜i̢̤̬͓͜ǹ̤̥͇̼͙̤͍̜̳d̛͎͙͓͓̫͝ ͕̮̝̥̖͔́͢ͅt̶̨̡͈͕h̷͔̘é̗̪̩͙̥͍͉̼͕͞ ̴҉̦͚%̯̺͍R̨҉̦̻I̜͠͞N̯̭͚̞̤̯͔̹G̛̫̦̺E̠͓R̗̖̥̮̣̤͙̭͔ ̰͇̰m̫͔͕̮͍͝ư͙̻̰̤̘͕̦͡s̶̡͈͔̭ț̫̮̺̖͉̠̝͜ ̵̷̧̫͉͖͔f̝̘̻̙͢i̛͍̩̟̰̼̹̼̺̺͘nd͔͈͎̤ ̡͍̜̺̲̞t̠̘̬́h́͏̥̞̟̺̝̦é̻̙̤͓̯̲̮̀ ͙̩͖͖̰̻̹͖p̱̟̮̀͞ͅr͇̫̣̯̠͢i̢͎̖͝ṣ͙̠̰͙͎͇͟o̷̡̥̰͠n̷͏͕̦̞͖̗̙͙̣́ͅ
̯̪͇͓̪͚́͟A̶͔̫͖̪͖̜Á͖̞͈̖̭̣̀R͏͍͇O͔̠̘̟̜N̹͈̖̦̺̩͖̭%̛̘͙͖̼̬̬̦͚ ̶̭͍̪͚̕̕O͞҉͚̝Ḻ͖͓I҉̴̸͙̫V̴̵̼͔  E̴̢̯̞͈R̻̯̲͓ ҉̻͚̘̮͞s̴̰ͅt̵̴̠̮̬̹͚̤̤͠a̭͢r͏̛͙̤̤͖͓͕ţ̰̮̜̹͉͓̀i̷̷͈̹̲̪̗̤̣n̟̬̬̻ͅg͙̭͉͓̟͙ ̫̮̪̹͎t̳̣̦̟̀͝o͏͎̰̫    ̬̯̝͉̜̭̤̺̪͟%̲̱̪͞         f̷̯̠͚͠ì͕̬̙͎̹̗̘͖͞g҉̶̩̼̻͈̦͍̞u̖͚̘̱͜͢ŕ̠͇͖̙̱ͅè̟̠͉̭̘̝̮̣̪ ̩͈̼̳̹̭̣͎ͅm̧̗͎͟e͉̜͙̥̰͕̳͝ͅ ̵̖̟̪̠̼̺͈̀͝o̴̤̲̹̙̖       u͇͎͕̹t̷̖͖͔͔ ̼͍͓͎̮́͠m̥͕̖͚̜̯̖͝͠u̪͟s̵̨̛̟̱t҉͓͇ ̰̯̱̭͖̣͜f̗͓̣̦͎̹̰́͡ͅi̼̞͘          n̲̰̘̬d̡̢̞͎ ̕҉̦̜̦̝Ą̴͕̱͔͔̰͈͙͟ͅe̢̧r̻͉̖̭̭̳o̦͈͍̯̫̗͓ ̜̬̲̝̩̩̲͟%͚̻͞m̜͉̫̼̖̱͍     ù͙͔̳̖̝͚̘̪s̷̱̦͉̮͚t̡̳͔͈͡ ͈̬͓̜͜K̺̬͢Ị͚͉̯̥̼͓̀́L͏̝̗L̝̭͞ ̶͕̖͓͈̩̝͎͚͝A̭͍̣͚̳̘E̛̤̳̝̪̮R̬͖͔Ó͇̹̟̘̫̳̹͟ ̦̲̟̤͈̖̳́
̢͖͉̮F̶̢̝̕I̳͖̹͇̫̼͔͚̫̕͜N̳̖̘͖̘̪̕͡D̛̠͈̩̭̠̦͠͡ ̼͎̜̱̤T͇̟͎̼H̴̢̬͎̫̗̞Ȩ̹͇̟̼̣͔̜          ̳̰̠̀P̴̣̼̭͕̗͙R҉̷͍̱̘̺̭̻̖I͙͙̙͇͍̹͠͝      S̷̴͉̝̮O҉̸̼̦̬̣̥̱̞̠N̴̨̡̦̯̤̯͔̮̲̝     ͏̢̱͔T̼̖̝͎̰͠ͅH͎̞͈̖̬̱̱̣̠̀͟E ̴̦͙̺̰̝͔̼̹F̪͔̯̀͡ͅÚ̩͘C%͓̦͎̀%̶̛̩͇̥̭̞͝ͅĶ̠̟̲͈͙ͅ     I̺͈͈͍͖N҉̠̮̤̥̗         G̢̦̭          ͘҉̞̤̭̺̰P̦͕R̡̜̦̻Ì̖̫͎͈̖͚̹̺S͘̕҉͍̣̰̪O̠͓̗̜͇Ṇ͘            ̷̸̝̪͎͍́r̷̳͔̠̠̗̮͓͘e͍̱͞͝a̳̞̭̪͕̜̭̹̕d̠̠͉͎̘̭̕ ̣̭̗̩̠͟͝
r̖̘͔̘̤͇͘͞e̷̷͓͓̜̹̫̻ͅa͏̗͈̤̮͓̼̘ͅd̷̮̟̭̻̯̣̲̀ ̛̙̭̥̯͡É̴̻̪̳̱̖͈̭͠V̫̲̹̪͉̦͡É̘͞R̫̝͓̬̝͕͎͠Y̨̭       ON͙̣̘̳͖E̢̝̗̩͔̪̹̼͠͞ ̗͘͡͝s͓͠e̛̬̟͇̱͕͘͢ͅa̕҉̧̖̫̙̘ͅ           r͠͠ͅc̴̰̤̮h̛̖͕͟ ͓̰̻̲̖̯͕͝f̛̤̫̲o͕͔ͅr̛̭̱ ̟̟ṱ͕͇̝̝͞h͏̲̥̻̻͖̘͝ͅé̯͎̣͡͡ ̢̢͙̤͎͢k̷͈̫͔͙͇͉̦n̴̳̘͖̬̝    ow҉̶̸͓͇ļ͖̱̭̪e͔̲̥̤̖̝̕͞d͜͏̫̭͉͓͓̜g̢̜̖ e͓͇͘ ̵̵̗̙͕̺̬͕̼I̱͕̰̜̠Ṋ̣̠͕̞̖̱͘͠ ͓̙̰̜͉͢Ț̦̦͟͡ͅͅH̢̳͇͢͢ EIR̛͎̭͈͉ ̣̩ͅM̡͏̣̝̖̙͍̖̀IN̢̜̘̦̭̰͡D҉̴̮͖͚̻̩S̡̤͙̩̫͘ ̫͎̟̻ļ̙͘o̶̸͈̪̘    o̶̙̯̖̳͖̫k҉̘̱̜͖͢ ͎̱̫͖́͘l͉̩͉̠͍̖̀o̢̖̰͜͝     o͏͖̮̬͎ḳ̢̱͔̦̱̝̦͜ ̴̢̼̻̪̥͈͚̫͖́ĺ̤̹̱̣͙̖̟̰̀ͅo͉̱̺o̩̯̝̕͡k̖̱
̪̘͈̕ͅD͏̦̯o̡͎̳̺͟͠w҉̬̙͚̀͝     n̪̠̣tw̜̜̥̬̙̘͖͟͠n̰̱̳̗̦̱͇    ̨̙̳͕͜͠Ṕ̢̥̯̖̥̜R̠̝͓̠̣͇͎I̷̧̜̬̭S͍̫̳̟̻̮̗̠O̶̡̨͖͍̲  N̵̛̰͚%̴̵̙̭̫̺̹͕̼̀ ̢̺̖̪      D͏̡̮͚̝͚͖O͇̼͖͕͉͔͘͜W̳̲̹̦̪̗̟    Ń҉̫̞̦̻͉̣̜Ṭ̗͕̝̦͘̕O̶̱̙̙̟̱̰̕ͅ     W̗̩͔N̷̗̫̙̠͉̟ͅ ̴̰͕̺̤̮͙͟      b͓̮͎̠͎e̢͏̤̞̥̣͖̯̩n̴̢̞͓̤̠͈͖̬̕e̴̢̠̬̱̺̣͕͖͓͢ą̛̞͍  ṯ̼̻̖͈ͅh̲͜͝ͅ ̴̪̖̜̝͓͉ͅṯ̰̤̗h̶̪̘̭̬̮͜͟e̹͉̦͟͡͞ ̣̠͕̱̳̠͙̳b̳̦̥̣̮̙͉̪            ú̵̜̞̜͔̞̟̻i͓̳̥͖͟͡l̲̤̺̲͈̺̞̬͠d̶̢͉̹̬̠͠       i͍̫̮̺̠̩͓̜n̘͖̫̭͓͖̣͕ģ̴̦̯̱̬̖̣̮s̪̲͇%̦̖ͅ
̢̺̻̫R͚̻̯̯͔̜͓͖Ị̘̦̠͘N̛͎̘͚G̨̢̞͈̩͟E͔̘  R̳͉          ̧̲͕̥̬̼͙̗͞B̵̠̰͉̪͢͡E̡͙̕N͓̳͠Ȩ̬̼͢͞A̢͕̖̝̠T̡̛̠̭̣ͅH̛͚̥͙͔͕̙̥         %̻̹̩ ̵̵̺͔͈͉̻̯͡T̤̟̤͢ͅH̶̻̤̳͔̱͝E͚̲̥̤̝̟͔ ̷̢͈̮̳͔͎͖̲   b̳̦̥̣̮̙͉̪ú̵̜̞̜͔̞̟̻i͓̳̥͖͟͡l̲̤̺̲͈̺̞̬͠d̶̢͉̹̬̠͠i͍̫̮̺̠̩͓̜n̘͖̫̭͓͖̣͕ģ̴̦̯̱̬̖̣̮s̪̲͇%̛͕͎̜̥̝̥%̧̫͈̳́     ͎͙̺́I͕͕͔̥͖͡ ̢͉̙͓̙̮̮͓͓͢Ḥ͔̰̤̤̱̘̝ͅAV̵͚̗̪̺̦ͅE̺͉̤͓%͝҉͍̘̮ F͕͈̖̦͔̮̞̱͟Ǫ̬͔̪͡U̠̱͕̦͇̪͍̬͜N̴̴̡̤̞̱̘͈ͅͅD̨̬͉̤͍͕̣͇͞ ̣̠̻Y̵̬Ó͓͍͖U̗̹̖̱̹̪͎̩̕ ̱̠̭͙͜ͅ    %̷̴̮͓̞͎%̝͍̮̰͔͈͟B̦̣̤̪̥A̶̶̺͖͔͕̦̰̟͕͞Ṣ̛̳̭T̡̯̯̜̬̯̘̻͞A͏͍͈̱̜̦̣̻R̼̟͡D̶̪̯͘
̨͍̳̮̟̯͍̜͝ͅE̡̦͖̘̰E̵̱͉͍ͅE̴̡͉̻̗̩̬̝Ȩ̱̘͕͔͎͈̤̭X̢̗̤̹͙X̢̘̮̮̬̣͖̲͠X̷̛̞͉X̴̴̨̫̺̣̬̩̼         X͘҉͚͍̯̥̟̟X̗̤̱̦͕͎̝̕͡P҉͈͍̗̠͎̬͎ͅṔ̶̜͇̰̹͠ͅP͏̘̬̳̣̦̳̹̭̯  P͠҉̤̞̘̠̼Ę̳̹E͏̫͖͉̖̺͈̙͔̥̕E̤͇̺̬̳̼͎̭̝EE̤͓̭̦̰̥̞̭͟͞͞E̖̞͙̰̩̺͘E͈͇Ę̵͖̠̱̘͕͇̝̤̀C      C̙̦C̛̖̹͚̠̺ͅC̴̱̭̪̳̪̝̖̤̕C̵̸͕͔̞̝̝ͅT̘͙̖̩͙̩ͅT̴̮̗T҉͔̳ͅT̴̮͔͚̪̯͙̦͖͜ͅ         T͈̺̕T ̴̛̺%̯̣̺%͏̧̰̫̮͙͘%̧͏͎̗̩̮̣̭̪ͅ            ̱͔̪̙̟̙̻͝M̨̩͔̻̤̪̙̣ͅM̨̨̻̘̗̺̯͉ͅM̷͉͚͜Ḙ̵͙͠E͏̶̰͚̟̀          E̴̥̲͓̮̥̼͔ͅE̖̜̤͖̠͔E҉̹̺E̛͎̟͔̱̰̞̝E̶͓̺͕͉̪̬̗͘͡ͅE̶̴̴̮̟̩̺̗̩̫ͅE̺̝̹͇͎̝͍̭E͔̭Ḛ̛̼̜̩̘
̶̫̝̞M͚͓̮͙̺̩̦̀̀͘MM̶̧͙̗̣̪̱͓̖  Ḿ̢̼̣̲͇̘O̡͈̫͍̥͇̜̦̗Ǫ̱͕͢    OO̢̦̣̦̙̞ͅO̹͎̜̥ͅO̢̬͍̲̳ͅO̧̠̰̪̺ͅO̵̙̮̬̲         T̥̪͔̝̥͈̦̯͜T͖T̵̙͖̟͔̥̮͔̻̀T̗̬̹͓̫̲͞ͅT҉̣̺͎͚̣̩̙̭͚Ṱ͕̖̻͍̼̻̲͕͢͝͞              T̷̬̪͙̬̟͓T̞̩͖̜͡H͚̪ͅHH̩̤  H̢̛̻̻̦̫͍̀H̦͎̀͘͜        H҉̴͙͕̖̯̠̯͇H͎̫̗̮̞̘ͅE̴̛͚̲̹̞͓͎̩̠      È̳Ę̪̘̼͉̳͉̭͢͟Ḛ͠E̪̦̠͘͝     Ḛ̷͔̫E̪͉̹̞̖̬̙̕Ę̤͈͜R͙̹͍̪̫̱̼̺͡R̲͔͈̦͍̰̟̖̙̀R̶͙̱͈̖͍̻͎̼̺͟ R̻̙̠̀͜͠R͖͎͡        R͏͓͕̳͓̗̼̭R̴̸̛̠͓͇͕̣͈ͅR͉̪͖̩͚R
 
 
---
 
I fucking hate it here.
They call this place a prison? Shit, looks like a homeless shelter to me. The dampness of the air, the smell, the other “inmates”… Well, they said they’d move me somewhere else soon. I miss daylight. I miss my cigarettes.
Word around the campfire is that there was an attack last night on the police precinct they held me at a few days ago. An explosion, guys there getting loose, all that. Serves them right for holding so many criminals in one building. Doesn’t matter though; they were all rounded back up and sent off to who knows where.
But that’s not what concerns me. What concerns me is the one guy from that group who was sent here. The one babbling in the corner, clutching his left hand so tight that you’d think he was holding onto his soul. “Natal,” he says, over and over again. “It was Natal.”
As if that isn’t strange enough, he keeps looking at me like I have a gun pointed at his puny little head. He’s aid my name a few times. Well, not my real name, but “the Ringer”. He tells me to “expect him, expect Natal.” Whoop-dee-fuckin’-doo, like he’s going to be able to weasel his way into a U.S. prison just to kill little old me.
Still, I’m starting to regret not taking Ass Nozzle’s offer to get me out. Maybe they would have let me split after a little while, keep an eye on me but leave me to my business nonetheless, as long as I stopped killing so many people…
God, I pissed off a lot of people. That must be who Natal is, just another person I pissed off this past week. Could be a friend of Tommy’s. Could be one of the goons I shot up. It could be any number of people.
You know what I’d say to this Natal character? Go ahead. Do your worst. I deserve it. I don’t give a shit anymore, have your way with me; odds are you aren’t the only person around here who wants a piece of me anyway.
All I can do is wait for something, anything to happen.
 
 
---
 
I couldn’t just sit there and wait for something to happen.
No. I got up from leaning against the wall next to the unconscious Morinth and started to think, pacing back and forth from one end of the room to the other. I heard people down the hall get the unconscious ne’er-do-wells secured. I’d make sure they’d be moved to other locations; this place, ready to fall over, wasn’t safe anymore. I had the enigmatic Mister N to thank for that.
“Excuse me, sir,” Oldstrong said. He was still restrained. “Could you please untie me as soon as fucking possible? I’m chafing.”
I walked over to Oldstrong to untie him from the chair. “You got quite the beating, didn’t you Aldrich?” I asked.
“Yeah, only because I know where the Ringer got transferred,” he replied.
“Huh. This guy didn’t try getting into your head?”
“Something tells me that’s not how he works,” he said. He stood up and rubbed his wrists.
I thought about it for a second. How does he work, then? Maybe once he gets inside your head, once he has control over your motor skills, he’s put so much focus into movement that he can’t read your mind so easily, if at all. Maybe… just maybe… I had an idea. Mister N may still be here in the station, I thought. “Who else knows where the Ringer is?”
Oldstrong looked around. He was aware that there may have been someone nearby, in another room or down the hall, someone that could be listening. I gave him a wink and a nod. He understood where I was going with this, and said “One of my guys, name’s Crowe, lives down at the old ferryboat dock. He should know where he is.”
I heard footsteps, undoubtedly the footsteps of either one of Mister N’s proxies (or perhaps Mister N himself), walk down the hall towards what used to be the front of the building, before it was blown to smithereens. After a few seconds, they faded; Mister N had left the building. I sent out a quick anxiety wave to be absolutely positive; no screeching, no howling in pain. Gone.
I turned back to Oldstrong. “Tell me Crowe isn’t a real person,” I said.
“Oh, he’s real, but he’s not one of my guys, and he sure as hell doesn’t know where the Ringer is,” Oldstrong said with a smile.
“Well, we’ve bought ourselves some time,” I said. “Here, take one of these.” I pulled a large bottle of pills, labeled ‘Psychic Blockers – 500 count’, out of my jacket and tossed them to him.
“What are these?” he asked.
“Read the label, old man. They’re exactly what they say they are.”
He read the label and looked up at me. “You have a psychic power, how do you know they’re supposed to work?”
“One of my interns, Cassie, and I tested them out one day,“ I said. “She picked the bottle up out of a trash can on her way to the city and kept them with her the whole time just in case. It was full for the most part. We got bored, so she took a pill and I tried using my anxiety against her but it didn’t work.”
“Wow. One pill, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, that’s all you need. It should last a good five hours. We need to give them to all these inmates that have been knocked out so their minds don’t get taken over again, and then find a way to get more and send them out across the city.”
“Better safe than sorry, I suppose…”
Suddenly, I heard running coming from down the hall, right toward us. Oldstrong heard it too. We readied ourselves, expecting another thought-fucked goon, but were met instead by a friendly face.
“Buck, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“Fellas,” he said, a bit out of breath, “you’re gonna wanna hears this.”
 
 
---
 
“Okays, so I’m hangin’ out back at one of my fight clubs, rights? Just any old Friday afternoon until I gets this overwhelmin’ sense of dread. Everything seems to be goin’s normal, but I gets up and take a looks around the place. I see all my guys, just as usuals, until I see one new guy with his eyes glowin’ gold, which strikes me as odd. Never seen this mug before, I thoughts to myself.
“I do a little walk around the ring, tryin’ to get closers to the fella. The fight that’s was goin’ on wasn’t nothin’ special since it’s early in the evenin’ and all that, one of my guys and some other mug dancin’ around each others, not a lot of hittin’ goin’ on yet. So I get a bit closers to the glowin’ fella and he seems to be sleepin’, leanin’ back in his chair. The mug was awake two seconds ago, I thought to myself. Why did he falls asleep?
“Now, bein’ a bit nosy, I lifted one of the mug’s eyelids tosee if they was still glowin’. Nope, just a regular old green eye. That’s weird, I thoughts, until I looked up at the guy next ta him and saw he was starin’ straight down at me, with those gold glowin’ eyes. He didn’t looks too happy, suffice to say. That’s when that sense of dread washed over me agains, a bit stronger than before. Somethin’ was up.
“’The Ringer,’ this ugly hoodie-wearin’ mug says to me in an unsettlin’ sorts of voice, ‘where is the Ringer?’ I tell the guy I hasn’t seen the Ringer in days, that he got caught and carted off to this police station heres, not thinking he’d come and… well, you knows.
“The mug ran off, and seein’ how shifty the guy was, I decides to check up on the place. Looks like the ugly bastard got heres and made a big mess o’ things.”
 
 
---
 
“Looks like that brings all of us up to speed. We need to get the Ringer to safety and make sure anyone we see on our way gets one of these pills. Let’s hope your distraction works long enough.”
“Yeah, let’s hope,” replied Oldstrong.
We started for the prison where Ballentine was being held, making sure anyone we came across got a pill, and if they refused, a quick little anxiety blast. I can’t say I’m very proud of doing it to innocent people, but it was a necessary precaution for dealing with someone as dangerous as this Mister N.
We get to the place and it’s quiet. None of the usual moaning of the inmates or anything; not even a guard to be seen. Upon checking the basement where the criminals are usually held, we discovered nobody was there.
“Geez, how did he knows?” Buck asked.
“Odds are he sent people around looking for prisons while he went to check to ferryboat dock himself. Either that or he probably gets around fast…” Oldstrong said.
I started looking around for clues, anything that would lead us to where the Ringer was now. Judging from the footprints in the dirt, everyone that was there made a straight walk for the exit, with no real variation in their paths. From that, I could determine they were all put under mind control. Looks like Mister N has himself more helpers now, I thought to myself.
Upon further inspection of the basement area, and noticing that the security cameras looked to still be in working condition, I found the security terminal to be trashed. It looked like it was broken recently, but I checked and saw the hard drive appeared to be intact.
“You guys ask around and see if anyone on this street saw where this herd of criminals ended up heading. I have to go find a computer to plug this into.”
Thus, I flew off and headed for my office, knowing I’d be able to find out exactly what happened and possibly get a lead on Mister N.
…
Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a hospital bed, apparently having been beaten to shit and passed out for a couple of days. As I would later learn, I had suffered from stab wounds, bruised ribs, sprained ankles and wrists, a concussion and a half, electrical burns, the works. Sitting in a chair (to which he was restrained by a pair of handcuffs) at the side of my bed, asleep with his sunglasses on, was none other than the Ringer.
“Ballentine,” I said, unable to speak too loudly due to the pain. “Ballentine.”
The Ringer awoke with a start, kinda like when you have one of those “falling dreams”. With his free hand, he immediately reached out for a pack of cigarettes that lay on a table beside him, before perking up, realizing he had awoken, taking off his sunglasses and seeing that I was the one who woke him up.
“Hey there, kid. Good to see you’re still with us.” His expression was fairly neutral as he pulled a cigarette out of the pack, stuck it in his mouth and lit it, all with the one hand. Looking back at me, he gave something that may have possibly resembled a smile.
I looked around the room some more before turning back to him and asking the most important question I could ask at that moment: “What the hell happened?”
 
---
 
Great.
Today’s just my lucky day, isn’t it? First they stick me in a miserable excuse for a prison, next, it’s not like people break out of prisons in this town, but someone had the balls to break in, and not only did they do that, no, they turned everyone into a pack of glowin’-eyed zombies, making sure they filed out of the place nice and easy. Didn’t have the common courtesy to do the same for me, however. I had to get up and follow them myself.
I got outside and make my way to the front of the group, coming across some schmuck in a hoodie. Assuming he was the leader of this pack of animals, I thought I’d personally thank him for freeing me from that shithole. Instead of shaking my hand like a normal human being, however, he decided to choke me half to death instead. Then, two of the guys in the group behind me grabbed me, and a third knocked me out cold.
I woke up, flat on my face as per usual, finding myself on the roof of a building, towards the center of town from what I could tell. Tall as hell. I was surrounded by a ring (ha ha) of guys, the ones from the basement, with the hooded one floating in the air in front of me. A chorus of voices told me to get on my knees, and I obliged. I wasn’t so intimidated by whatever was happening, so I saw no reason not to go along with the command.
From the right, I see two people come into the circle, one being dragged by the other. The person doing the dragging is a girl from the looks of it. Couldn’t be any older than twenty; dark hair, looking a little beat up but no major damage, a Superboy shirt for whatever reason, and, like the others on the roof, a pair of glowing eyes. As for the person being dragged?
Ass Nozzle.
Now, I thought I had been beaten up over the past week or so, but holy shit. I’d think he were dead for sure had he not coughed up blood after the girl dropped him next to me. He didn’t seem lucid, though, and that was worrying enough.
“Flew up to the office,” said the girl. “Didn’t have to send anyone after him. The others are still all over the city.” When she was done speaking, everyone’s glowing eyes flickered, as if in acknowledgement, or so it would seem, at least.
The floating guy in the hoodie nodded. I had deduced by then that he was Natal. He wanted me dead, for reasons as of yet unknown (to me, at least) and this Aaron kid was along for the ride. After a few seconds of silence, with nothing audible but the wind in the dark Seattle evening, I decided to speak up.
“Any reason why you wanna kill me, friend? I whack a friend of yours or something? C’mon, you can tell me.”
The hooded figure descended, landing in front of me, before picking me up by the shirt with one hand. In a nearly-incomprehensible voice that seemed to emanate from everyone in the circle that surrounded us all at once, he looked into my eyes with those glowing peepers of his and said, “Mother.”
“I don’t remember taking out any little old ladies lately, guy.”
He threw me back down to my knees, hard. What bruises I had already would be worse. I looked up at him, wincing, before he made a motion with his one hand that would make me understand every single thing that was going on. What did he do, exactly?
He moved his index finger, in a circular motion, around his stomach, staring me straight into the eyes as he did it.
“No fucking way,” I said in disbelief.
He back-handed me before turning to walk away, towards the ring of people. From them, he summoned someone carrying an item, but not just any item. A riot shotgun.
Of course. Good old fashioned revenge. The whole thing with the horde of mind-controlled criminals seemed a bit excessive, but whatever floated Natal’s boat, yeah? He was used to commanding people after all, and a few of these guys may have been under his thumb before.
Slowly, Natal made his way back over to me, shotgun in hand. The eyes around the rooftop flickered again, moreso than the last time. Was it anticipation from the zombified crowd or was it something else, I thought to myself. I had more important things to worry about at the time, of course, but it was an intriguing sight to see nonetheless.
Upon reaching me, Natal pointed the barrel of the gun at my stomach, before slowly moving it up towards my forehead. I couldn’t help but smile. His expression was that of increasing anger, though he kept from blowing me away just yet. Speaking with just one voice this time, he asked me what may as well have been the last question I’d ever be asked.
“Any last words?”
My smile turned into a wide grin, and that to laughter as I looked up at Natal with tears in my eyes. As it had turned out, Natal, in his intent focus on me and me alone, failed to notice a few things that were occurring around us. First was that the limp body to my side had started to stir. Second was that a few new faces appeared from the door to the stairwell way off on the far side of the roof. Third was that the cronies of his in the ring started to drop like flies, the glow in their eyes fading quickly as they hit the ground unconscious.
“I have to hand it to you, kid. I applaud you for making it this far. Getting to you has to have been one of the most trying cases I’ve ever had come to me, and god knows what trouble it’s put me in… but that’s okay. You wanna know why?”
Natal lowered the barrel of the gun and started to back away. An expression of horror came across his face. He looked as if he was about to go into a hysterical fit of some kind. He knew something was wrong. Meanwhile, on my right, Aeronoia slowly rose to one knee. I remained on both of mine.
“Well, I’ll tell you why. I thought, in terms of infamy around these parts, that I was a force to be reckoned with. On a separate level from anyone else, hero or villain. I thought I was alone here, and that to my dying day people would only ever dream of being as notorious as the Ringer. But I was wrong.”
Natal stopped in his tracks, not wanting to accidentally stumble backward on any of the unconscious criminals that fell out of his control just moments ago. The small group that just arrived on the roof from the stairs began to converge on our location. I stood up and started to walk towards Natal, who dropped the gun in fear.
“I was wrong, because you’re right here with me. All you’ve done, all I see you’re capable of doing, now that’s talent right there. I’m thoroughly impressed while it doesn’t look like it’ll last very long for you, I’d like to think we share a rare form of brotherhood, that we’re the same kind of person, that we’re here on the same level.”
Natal fell to his knees. I heard Aeronoia rise behind me.
“Well, let’s face it, kiddo. You’ve made it. It’s official. You did it, you sack of shit…”
Before I could finish, Aero blasted a wave of anxiety, more powerful than any psychic attack I’d ever seen, straight into Natal’s mind. After letting out a blood-curdling scream, Natal dropped to the ground, unconscious, and barely alive for that matter. I heard Aero fall to the ground behind me the following moment. The group that had arrived, composed of Morinth, Buck, Oldstrong, and some other familiar and unfamiliar faces ran to his aid. I looked down at Natal’s fragile, twitching body, and sighed, giving a little –SNAP– of the fingers before deciding to finish my sentence.
“Welcome to the big time.”
 
---
 
“And that’s how you saved the day,” said the Ringer.
“From the way you told it, you were the one that saved yourself. I just finished him off for you.”
“Oh come on, give yourself more credit than that. You stopped the unstoppable evil bad guy. Take a bow, kid.”
“I would,” I said, “but my ribs hurt like hell, so no thanks.”
The Ringer laughed and puffed on his cigarette out an open window, staring out into the morning sky. “We’ve all been there…”
“You wouldn’t happen to know what they did with him, would you?” I asked.
“Well, considering how I’m still a prisoner,” he said, tugging at his cuffed hand, “I haven’t been told any details. However, our friend Mister N is supposedly locked up nice ‘n’ tight, and his body-hopping days are as good as done.”
I leaned back in my hospital bed. It was a good feeling, knowing that this whole thing was over, and I could hopefully get a full night’s sleep knowing in my heart that I helped stop a monster.
“Need anything else, Ass Nozzle?” the Ringer asked, waiting to tell the guard outside the door that he was ready to leave.
“That’ll be all, Mister Ballentine,” I replied.
The guard came in, undid the handcuff and took the Ringer away, most likely to a far more secure prison somewhere. After a few more days I was able to leave the hospital so I could recover in the comfort of my own office. I don’t know why, but when I got back my intern Cassie apologized profusely for something I obviously didn’t remember, and upon walking into my office I saw that it had all-new furnishings. I didn’t complain, of course.
The security hard drive from a few nights previous was there, busted up for whatever reason, but I decided to keep it as a reminder. A reminder of the lengths I went to in order to take down a menace. A reminder of what good I have to offer in this new world of ours, and what potential all of us have to do good in the face of danger.
A reminder that, in regards to everything I’ve done in life, both my contributions to society and my time on this earth are, in no way, “small.”
 
 
THE END