"Tell me about it."
"What happened?"
"Tactic disagreement. I wanted to bring them in; they preferred an explosive exit."
"Not sure I blame them after what happened to their partners. But you should have had backup in there. That deep in the Underbelly, you could have run into anything. You could have been critically injured or worse."
"I know the risks. Viper says she's out the game, so I didn't ask."
"You might have to find your own Viper. The original Vigil needed help too, you know."
Vigil winced as he stood, leaning on Zip for support. "You were his help. Isn't that what put you in the chair?"
He realized his mistake by the silence on the other end. "Hey, Incog — I'm sorry. Didn't mean to—"
"It's no problem, Vigil. We'll discuss that later. For now, let's get you back to base. I'll have a floater waiting at the nearest tunnel exit."
"Roger that." Vigil signed off and patted Zip on his rusty head. "Nice job, partner."
The robot buzzed in response. "Zip happy to help."
"I know you are, Zip. Let's get out of here." Limping, he followed Zip through the tunnels, followed by echoes and dripping water. Zip's head-lantern cast just enough illumination to make their way out. Darkness in front of them, darkness behind them, but light surrounded them, holding the shadows at bay as they left the cavernous depths and ascended to city lights that greeted them like a night sky full of stars.
Chapter 2: Limbo
The Grim Reaper Posse crew lounged in a group outside a dope house in Brickland: talking trash, playing games on holovisors, servicing the fiends that came by like clockwork. Only a few were tatted with skull-and-bone art representing their syndicate. The rest were low-level soldiers that hadn't earned their ink yet. Sweat dripped down bare skin even with the fans mounted on the outer wall of the house. The heat made them lazier than normal. Careless out of habit because the badges hadn't made a bust on their turf in months. The op was too small, not worth the cost of sending drones or uniforms. The beat cops were paid to turn a blind eye unless things got out of hand.
Things were about to get out of hand.
Two bangers had guns: one with his rifle carelessly slung over his shoulder, the other with a bio attached to his holoband, not even activated. She took them out first with k-darts to the neck when she jumped from the rusty fire escape. The other bangers didn't notice anything was wrong until their buddies slumped to the broken concrete, unconscious.
By then, it was too late.
She landed in a crouch and quickly straightened, facing the startled bangers, who scrambled for their other weapons: knives, bats, pipes. The harsh sunlight glinted off her sleek gunmetal and yellow flex-armor. The interior of the visor that covered most of her face flashed with threat detectors that analyzed her enemies, mathematically indicating the best attack patterns.
"Heads up, bozos: give up Cerberus and walk. Don't, and wigs get split."
One of the GRPs laughed, pointing his aluminum bat in her direction. "The hell you 'posed to be? You no Vigil. Just scrawny jade in cosplay."
She flexed her fingers. The stun baton at her side popped from its holder and slapped into her hand, humming with charged electricity. "Last time: Cerberus. Spill."
He sneered. "Better idea: drop drawers and gimme goodies. Then the crew gets leftovers."
She smiled. "Your choice, jankhead. Bad one."
Abraham Clarke haunted the streets like a restless spirit.
His strolls took him further each week until he realized he was walking a beat like he did as a rookie in the force, from the safety of his gated Brickland suburb to the gritty streets where old men like him were assaulted or killed for kicks. He wondered if a part of him wished some mugger or banger would try. He didn't carry the pistol in his pocket for nothing, after all. His reflexes were still pretty good, and he figured he could draw, aim, and shoot if his life was in danger.
But it was more than that. It was the itch, the tiny jolt of adrenaline he felt every time a Vigil sighting was posted on the news. He started monitoring the Cult of V message boards, even interacting with some of the visitors. Most were ordinary people, venting about the crime and violence. They were proud supporters of Vigil's fight, cheering every verified sighting or evidence of his activities. A few were psychos, posting disturbing accounts of extreme violence against gang members, ethnic communities, and other groups. The Cult was quick to remove and ban any of that. But he was mostly interested in the posts by Sentry, the enigmatic founder of the Cult of V. The voice memos were spoken by a female, but it was disguised and impossible to trace with his equipment, as was the origin of the transmissions. Her posts were random and general, but the conclusion he drew was that she was someone who had encountered Vigil at some point. More than likely a potential victim Vigil saved in his fledgling career. Whatever the case, she spoke with passionate admiration, and her dedication was contagious.
Not to mention dangerous.
Not a day went by without a report of another act of vigilante activity. Ordinary citizens bolstered by the Cult of V, inspired by Vigil's example. Sometimes it was encouraging, like a week ago when a group of people stopped a mugging and chased off the perpetrator. Other times it was tragic, like the young man shot to death while foolishly trying to take on an entire crew of gun-running bangers. No matter what the case, one thing was certain: everything had changed in the few months that passed since Vigil's first appearance. And especially since the execution of the Denizens. It was like static crackling in the air: a palpable sensation that was either excitement or dread. He couldn't call it.
He remembered the days when he was Chief of the Enforcement Division, and the first Vigil appeared. The years he spent chasing the crime fighter before forming an uneasy alliance and taking down the city's most dangerous threats together. That was before Mortis. Before it all came crashing down.
Only for Vigil to rise from the ashes and begin the cycle again.
He was surprised by how good the new guy was. Wayne took a long time developing into a successful Vigil, but the current version apparently hit the ground running. It was uncanny. Abe wondered who he was. Had to be ex-military. Maybe even a rogue Elite. Or maybe he wasn't even human. Arthur definitely had time to develop an intuitive android over the years.
But Abe had a hunch that Vigil was human. Arthur had too much of an inferiority complex to try to fill those shoes, even via an automaton. No, Abe figured that either Wayne had a secret apprentice in the wings or Arthur had finally found the perfect candidate. Either way, whoever assumed the mantle was doing a helluva job of stirring things up. And it wasn't going to go away anytime soon. The way things were going, Vigil was the spark that lit the fuse. All that remained was the explosion, and how much damage it caused. It was a recipe for disaster, and more than likely, a lot of dead people. Good people. But maybe something else could happen. Maybe there was a way to guide the chaos into some semblance of change.
He sighed through his thick white mustache. Yeah, and maybe you're dreaming, old man. Stop tempting fate and get back home before someone knocks some sense into you.
Flashing blue and red lights pulsed from the adjacent alley. Guided by nostalgia and stubborn defiance of reason, Abe followed the flickers to the next street over, where a pair of beat cops scratched their heads at the sight of a pile of bangers piled on top of each other, shackled together by brightly-colored zip ties. They were bloodied and bruised, groaning as they unsuccessfully tried to stand, resulting in a display of uncoordinated comedy.