RESONICS: REVELATIONS
by
J. R. Calvo
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
J. R. Calvo
Resonics: Revelations
Copyright 2010 by J. R. Calvo
Cover by Matthew Bruce Barr
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Ebook Edition License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Thanks to all who brought me here: Kassie, Kathy, Jon, Paul, Jeremy, Perry, Montis, Rob, Matthew, TJ, Cat, Beth, and all my fans on the Resonics Facebook page. Check out my page at www.jrcalvo.com for camaraderie on the forums and updates on the upcoming Resonics Chronicles!
Intro:
Revelations is an anthology of Resonics tales, and simple slices of life. Herein I have written of people, flawed people taking things as they come. Whether it's the Prose anger problems, the naivety of Matilda or the over-thinking of Karl, all have their shortcomings. I give fair warning; not all questions will be answered, nor is any one person or group always in the right. Revelations gives you the players of Resonics when they stood alone. Like a single guitar string's twang, I'll show you why none can stand alone. My only wish is that you find something that strikes a chord in you. This story scraps the surface of what is to come. I am releasing this series of short-shorts to set the stage for the first novel of The Resonics Chronicles. Stay tuned and enjoy.
~J. R. Calvo, September 24, 2010
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DAY OF REAPING
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JOHN CASTER
Humanity is ever changing and evolving, reacting to the tides of time. Greed, Power, Resources, War... these static forces drive and motivate us. In years to come, we will set aside our blunt instruments like nuclear arms for something greater, something natural, something we're all born with. It will come to be greater in grace...greater in carnal power...greater in painting death. The power of Resonation will change our world.
“Gods damn it, woman! Hold fast!” John Caster barked.
“Trust me, John.” A woman's voice came from all directions within the nexus chamber, even though the speaker stood just shy of 200 miles away, in Vermont. Caster and his four Aurals stood at the very center of the simple chamber carved into the cave. A perfectly circular room, with nothing save a smaller circle of sand. Nothing but rock, sand and desperate souls. The simplicity ended at what Caster could perceive within that circle while holding Resonation. Within the active nexus, he could see to the very edges of the state of New York, miles in every direction. More importantly, he could resonate that far as well.
In the ocean of sound waves about him, he could isolate and manipulate each tune. Like a massive carpet, he made slight tugs on each thread's wave by matching his own frequency to the thread's. The result: civilians in a park decided it might rain and returned home. Caster shoved his focus from the cacophony about him, back to the woman's voice.
Caster growled back at the voice, “Do it, Jewels.” He turned his attention from the voice on the comm to the Aurals about him. The cave's dry air caught in his throat as he said, “Hudson Valley, Report.”
Dividing the state into sectors gave speed to their desperate stand. There was an Aural assigned to each compass direction. In the North, Victor monitored everything from the Finger Lakes to the Adirondacks. Eve covered South-Central, from Oneida to Ulster. Isabel oversaw everything West of the Finger Lakes. Liam's duty in the Southeast spanned from the Hudson Valley to Long Island. This left Caster supervising the group, while he monitored the greater Albany Area.
“Liam! What's your status?!”
Sweat poured down Liam's face as he responded, “Geomagnetic Storm nearing Apogee, Ionosphere failing. I've just lost Long Island!” Caster turned with his double sight. His Resonic sight watched as a terrible fissure swallowed the entire island beneath the waves. His true sight saw Liam beginning to falter. Liam wiped his soaked hair back revealing a gaunt face. Caster knew Liam would be hearing the chorus of screams for the rest of his days. Or day.
Caster felt his heartbeat pounding in his head as he considered the next step. There's no choice. Grinding his teeth, Caster said, “Hold it together folks, the worst is coming. Isabel how's Niagara holding up?”
The stress plain in her clenched shoulders, she calmly said, “Slight temperature climb, lost communications from Quebec.”
“Acknowledged. Isabel, Victor. Disengage and prepare the Arms,” From his enhanced vantage, Caster looked up. What have we done? Caster flicked on the comm saying, “Countrywide, this is New York. Be advised, I am activating the Arms of Taranis.” A concert of dissenting exclamations exploded through the comm before Caster silenced them. He returned to the private channel. More softly, he said, “Vermont, you still with me, girl?”
Jewel's voice returned on the comm, “I'm here, John. It's really come to that?”
Caster sighed. How can I tell her this? He finally said, “It has, Jewels. If the tectonic plates surfacing don't get us, the solar flare will. We need to release the pressure...”
Silent static ate away at Caster until she responded, “The resulting EMR will shut down all of the nexus stations, kill off Resonation, not to mention the impact to any unshielded fuel and munitions. You're talking about a worldwide EMP, John.”
“I know Jewels. And this isn't about making those bastard politicians lose their resonically made mineral deposits, it's...”
“Of course not, John. But have you thought about what all those additional particles will do to the atmospheric chemistry? What if a heightened magnetosphere causes continuous vents? Some of those man-made veins run deep.”
“I'm talking about trading certain death for possible death. I'm going to need your help, Jewels. Who knows, we probably won't even be able to replenish the magnetosphere.”
“Two against all, my love. I've got your back.”
“Back at ya, sexy.” Tension tears streamed down Caster's face as he clenched his eyes. Caster's thoughts raced as he tried to psych himself up. Come on, John, you gotta save more than just her, hold it together. Isabel and Victor returned with the gear. The Arms of Taranis were a spiderweb of silver lined straps that encircled the torso, limbs and forehead. A shallow silver bowl rested over each of the wearer's palms. That's where the Arms focused Resonic emissions. Most terribly, they amplified a single Resonator's pulse exponentially. Caster using the Arms could obliterate an enemy country. Paired with Jewels in similar equipment, they could level the planet's surface. The tricky part was not throwing a wrench into the Earth's core, altering its rotation.
Caster began slowing his thoughts and recited the steps for Resonation. I'll need every bit of will, if we're going to pull this off. Identify the pulse to affect, Match the frequency, Release my re-tuned wave. Identify, Match, Release. Caster stood with arms extended, and released his Resonic sight. The world grew quiet as the ocean of waves disappeared before him. He still felt the pressure emitting from the Aurals, perceived their active Resonation, but he was just a man again. Forgive me, Jewels.
He would have to re-initiate Resonation once the Arms were active. He let his assistants fasten and adjust the gear. Caster flinched as the cool metal of the Arms of Taranis touched his skin. Identify, Match, Release. With each additional strap, he felt his pulse stretch out to that region. Normally one's pulse rested at the center of the torso. However, the arms transformed the entire body into an antenna. Caster felt the pulse potential increase through vibrations from head to toe. He savored the sensation of Pre-Resonation. This will alter the very tune of Earth. Gods forgive me, we may never again become in tune. Years of human achievement lost forever. Nothing will be left of the power save the crude mutation, Untuned Resonation. I hope they know better than to go down that road again. Caster flexed his fingers and furrowed his brow. He said with head hung, “Activate the Arms of Taranis.”
* * *
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THE SENATE WARS
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FRANK PROSE
YEAR: 505 AR (AFTER REAPING)
Centuries have passed since the Reaping, the world as we know it is gone, ripped asunder. Our beautiful gift of Resonation is lost. Yet, War remains. Using clumsily fashioned sonic and conventional weapons to replace Resonation, the battle wages on. Where once lush fields, and towering cities lay, desolate war-ridden plains remain. Much of what you know has become a wasteland of dust and death.
Frank Prose, as a younger man, stared out from the trenches across the shell-pocked field, waiting for that green as a leaf kid beside him to finish up loading. He wiped a sweaty trail of dust from his brow, and glanced to his sides. Make that twenty kids. Frank looked at his hand. Amongst the grim, lay flecks of silver. Ever since the Reaping, it's everywhere. To stoke both of their spirits, Frank said, “Nathan, my boy. You're gonna live through this-I'll see to it.”
“Yes, sir.” Nathan blurted out between clenched teeth. Frank could see the fear coursing through him. The waiting gnawed at you. Too much time to think. Recruit First Class Nathan Stark was one of the few, the few that Frank had any hope for. If he was going to do anything with Nathan, he had to carve out all the basic training crap filling his dome.
Sergeant Frank Prose turned from surveying the battle field to growl, “'Sir?' I look like your daddy? It's Prose or if the brass is walking by, Sarge.”
“Yes, Sarge, Sir!”
Rolling his eyes, Frank looked back across the way, scratching a two day scruff. Greener every batch. For cover, we’ve got that crater to the left, the smoking carcass of that mech, and a few boulders to the right. Did I really come out just like that a few years back? Sonic pulses have pretty much flattened any hope of plant cover. Grounds dry, no rain in a week, means plenty of dust cover. If half survive the mines, should have enough for a flank maneuver. Frank’s brainstorm cut off as Nathan handed him a fresh reload. He appraised the recruit beside him. Brown hair and gray eyes, too young to have more than dirt on his chin. I'll be damned if he ain't the spitting image of my own son. Running his hand through his early-graying hair, Frank called to Nathan, “Stark. What time ya got? Mine's busted.”
Nathan said, “12:05...” A stern glance from his sergeant directed the response’s end, “...Prose.”
“Good, that means those bastards'll be at tea and biscuits. Perfect time for a strike.” Nathan smiled nervously to this reassurance. But it actually meant something completely different to Frank. It meant that, more likely than not, Frank had become a grandfather. His rigid jaw and piercing green eyes softened a little at that. Dammit, keep your mind in the game, old man. Tend to the kids later.
Frank looked about at the 25th squadron of Newman's Red Coats. It'll be brown coats at the end of the day with all the grim and guts stained on 'em. The ‘Brats', were a mean mix of old warhorses like Frank assigned to breaking in fresh recruits. Some of the soldiers had nicknamed the unit the 'Meat Grinder' because for every two recruits that came in, one soldier came out. I'll be lucky if I get one for four today. But that surviving minority will fill the iron spine of Newman's army. That's what an extra hour of drilling a day did, and that's why Senator Newman called him, The Professor. The Brats knew better then to repeat this nickname. To them, he was simply Prose.
On this particular day, a communique came directly from Senator Newman's perfumed tent to Frank's mangy pack.
“Take position 13 Beta” was all it said. The command sounded straight forward enough-unless, of course, it was you doing the taking. Frank knew that between the Red Coats line and 13 Beta laid a field of low frequency landmines and an equally savage SR cannon. SR for Soul Ripper, so named because you dropped dead without a sound. Enough to make you bleed out memories of kindergarten. Not a damn thing ballistic armor can do to stop it. Frank knew this was a suicide push, but he had no choice. Mutiny meant certain death, too.
“Alright brats! Ya moving slow as molasses! Yer makin’ the old dogs like me look bad,” Frank glanced from side to side. Bunch o 'kids, what the hell is HQ thinking? “We're gotta to hit that hill, and hit it hard.” Scanning the Brats, he continued, “Winters, Richter, Konrad, the right flank. Stark, on my ass-the rest swing wide left. We should hold their attention, which will let ya flank 'em. 'Member Brats! Don't bunch up, too juicy a target for them mines. Now move!” A chant of “Brats,” and then they were off. They clawed at the trench's dirt wall, more than one taking a mouthful of dust in the process.
The bombardment came instantly. Frank mounted the trench to a shower of brain matter, as one of his Brats found the first landmine. Frank mentally logged: Private Jones, deceased.
“Covering Fire!” The Brats may have been green, but Frank's command was absolute. 'The Professor' had a way of making soldiers, and damn good ones. In less than a heartbeat, the whole squad had taken a knee, and lit up the hill with sonic pulses. It erupted into a cloud of dust and blood. “Left Flank! Right Flank! Move, Move, Move!” Frank dared a glance to his far flanks.
The rest of the Red Coats' line stood their ground. Son of a bitch, Newman's using us to draw out the Blue Coats. “Right Flank, take position at that rock! I want that hill covered in so many damn frequencies I can lay in it like a hammock! Move Brats! Stark, Reload!” Like clockwork, Stark had the fresh battery cartridge in Frank's hand just as the old one was dropped. Kid's getting better, he lives, he gets a rifle. That was part of the problem, plenty of bodies, half as many rifles. It left plenty of 'Bullet Bunnies' scampering behind, waiting to claim their own piece.
Still jogging forward, Frank scanned the hillside, the dust still covered the sight from any cannon position. That was probably the only thing keeping them alive. Can't do this as one push, sprint and hold, sprint and hold. “Brats, Covering Fire!” Like a fleet of crop dusters, they tended to the hill, keeping the enemy fire erratic. A couple more steps positioned the right flank who began their own litany on the hillside. “Sprint and Hold, boys!” One second later, and Frank made it to the behemoth corpse of a mechanized armor. Gotta hold until the left flank is in position. Over his shoulder, Frank said, “See that boy, even Newman's new toy doesn't stand up to a Blue Coat SR cannon. Never try to take one straight-on. Blind and flank 'em. Left Flank's still moving, Hold here a sec.”
“Yes, Prose.” Frank heard something behind Stark's voice, strength. Where the hell that boy found some mettle? Somewhere in the last few paces? Gotta keep that going. He appraised Stark for a moment, before drawing his sonic pistol, and tossing the rifle to Stark.
“Don't do anything stupid, like shoot me in the ass,” Glancing over the armored corpse, he saw the dust cloud held. He turned to Stark and said, “Cuz if you think I'm 'ornery, you shoot me and you got to deal with my daughter-in-law. We call her Little Fits, cuz she damn near throws a fit about everything.”
To this, Stark nodded and laughed, “Yea, we got one of those in my family, too.”
“Should be giving me a grandson today. How 'bout you Stark, any brats of your own?” A few more yards.
“Not yet. My cousin's got a couple though. Named, Karl and Kara. They’re a handful.”
Frank looked to either side. The brats were finally into position and prone. Way to go, boys. Frank smiled, “The best kids always are. Alright, back to work, Stark.”
He gave the signal to the right flank to fire and relocate. They opened up on the hill bunker before bolting to their next positions. Frank and Nathan crept to either side of the smoldering hulk, and took a knee. Just as the first clip ran dry on the right flank, Frank pivoted outward, aiming his sidearm at the hill. Steadied on the mech’s leg, he exhaled slowly, “Grandpa’s coming, Jack.” He pulled the trigger.
A hundred yards away, not a sound was heard, but a Blue coat dropped all the same, blood trickling from his eyes and ears. That was the way most died on this field, no erupting flame, nor epic melee. Only body-counts.
Frank sighed. Nothing like when I joined, kinda miss the whomping of high frequency pulses. Indeed, if you closed your eyes on this battlefield, the only sound was movement, broken by the occasional whisper. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it a game of hide and seek. Even communications radios were left behind, all except Frank's. If you chanced getting lucky enough to not be jammed by the enemy, using it would only give away your position.
The weapons were modulated to such a low frequency, the human ear couldn’t detect it. 7 hertz was the sweet spot. The number of the Gods some claimed. You could cause organs to rupture, and lungs to collapse. With enough focused decibels, the entire body burst apart, as was the case with the one shot mines. Not enough and your target only went insane. The tossup, you had to fire in short bursts, or else that same vicious frequency could bleed back onto you. Short of spending the energy to generate an exact opposing wave, nothing stopped these pulses. It laughed at concrete, and picked its teeth with your armor.
Two things were in the Brats' corner: the time required to charge back up that SR cannon, and the enemy not knowing where they were. Half their charges were directed into the ground to create dust for cover. For this reason Frank emptied his weapon, and signaled the left flank to begin their push. Frank smeared the sweat off his face on a sleeve as he watched them advance. Spread wide, low and fast, boys. Frank gritted his teeth as the first fell, half the body crumbled away before hitting the ground. Recruit Beane, deceased. That’s a mine, not a rifle, keep going. A glance at the hill caused Frank to start swearing; the dust was clearing. Faster boys!
Too late. Frank bared gritted teeth as he saw the SR cannon had begun to rotate. He growled to Nathan, “Gods damn it! Stark, ready for a science lesson? High Frequency pulses don’t need buffering to minimize bleed-back. So if it takes less energy to fire high frequency pulses, guess what you get? Full auto!”
Nathan stared wide-eyed at Frank as he muttered, “But our position, Frank? They’ll…”
Frank barked loud enough for the right flank to hear, “No time, switch to high, and light up them son of bitches!” The only response Frank received sent shivers up his spine, the smacking splatter of meat to his left. He swore again. Half a Gods damned unit for a lousy hill.
One hundred yards away, men in blue Coats turned white at the sounds that followed. Two had merged on them: the high-pitched whistle their fathers would recognize as high frequency buildup, and the growl of a 45 year old Red coat screaming, “Brats, King of the Mountain!” For the couple Blue Coats, brave or dumb enough, which peeked down at the scene, they were greeted with the ear-shattering banshee’s scream of rapid-fire pulses. They fell back amongst their comrades cupping their ears and crying in agony.
The beast in Frank had been awakened, and he smiled wickedly at their pain as he charged across the field. The Brats seeing this fury, joined in the rush. Fountains of flesh appeared amongst the ranks as they found the last of the mines. Only five remaining Red Coats crested the hill. It was sometime before the echoing twang of high frequency pulses and screams let off.
Frank pulled out a flare. He considered it for a moment before tossing it to Stark. He said, “You take the honors, boy.” Stark barely caught the flare and smiled at the command. He ran to the highest point of the hill and ignited the flare. The smile faded from his face as he looked down into the face of a blue coated corpse. Concerned, Frank said, “What? What is it, Stark?”
“It's my cousin's husband. The kids' father.”
Sergeant Prose lightly patted his shoulder and said, “I'm... sorry son.” Aw, shit! Gods damned Newman had to send us, of all units, and we end up shaking down the damn Stark family tree for no reason. This whole war is a joke. We're just his pawns and patsies so he can play his sick little game against the other Senators as the whole mess of them divvy everything up. Red Coats, Blue Coats, what's the damn difference? Frank's thoughts cut off as Recruit Richter ran up shouting.
“Reinforcements rolling in to take over, Frank. Heya Stark! You made it...” A glare from Frank cut him off, and a nod of the head told the reason to can it.
Frank walked up to Richter and said under his breath, “It's a family member. There's a bottle of whiskey under my bunk. Make sure it's empty by the end of the night.”
“Aye, Sarge.”
* * *
A few hours later, Frank was waiting outside Senator Newman's tent, and the sentry gestured him in. Straightening his clean uniform, Frank nodded and said, “Thanks, Paul.”
Entering the tent always boggled Frank's thoughts. It was more a mobile palace then that of an army's leader. The multiple rooms housed all manner of flags and statues. Even Gods damned incense! The Senator sat in a throne that took two men to carry. He was milling over a map of the area, littered with little figurines for each unit. Idly, Senator Newman slid the figurines with his saber. About as close to the enemy as it'll get.
To the Senator's right stood a phalanx of a man, priest by his garb. Frank stood at rigid attention, waiting for Newman to notice his entrance. The priest had been more alert, and touched the Senator's shoulder.
“What? Oh... ah yes, Professor! Capital job, today,” the Senator mused.
Frank saluted as he recited, “Sir. There were seven casualties.”
“Come, come. You took the hill, Sergeant Prose. We'll beat those damned Blue coat bastards, yet!”
Frank ground his teeth as he continued, “Nine wounded...”
“Don't trouble yourself, Sergeant, we'll get you a fresh batch, next week. Any players of note today, by chance?”
“Recruit Nathan Stark. I've given him a field promotion to Private.”
“Excellent! We shall have to meet and congratulate this boy properly.”
Frank paused concocting a cover. He wove his tale, “I'm sorry sir. He's come down with frequency sickness. Give him a couple days and he'll be yours for the parading.”
“Hmm, pity couldn't be sooner. Very well, Sergeant, any other pressing updates?”
“Sir, about my leave request to see my family. My daughter-in-law just had a kid...”
Newman cut him off, “Denied, Sergeant. I need my professor to hold these boys together. We've got them running before our might.”
For the first time, the priest cut in, “Might of the Gods you mean, my Lord Senator. For none can stand before an army of the just.” Frank didn't know him, but his presence in Newman's tent meant important and dangerous. Frank kept his mouth shut. The priest continued, “And let him go, my Lord Senator. You need him fresh and dedicated to the cause. Besides, it will give you time to give the new squadron a trial run. We've proven they aren't effective solo, but we need to know their most efficient squad size... try three, five and seven at various points on the line tomorrow.” The priest pointing to a few spots on the map.
Re-engrossed with the map, the Senator stroked his chin. He looked up to Frank and gave a magnanimous nod of agreement, “A good point. Very well, Sergeant, you and your squad shall receive one week's leave. On your return, we'll see to honoring Stark and getting you all back in the cause. You're dismissed.”
Frank saluted, and then ceremoniously took three steps backwards, before turning to leave. The Senator had already returned to his map as he said, “Why odd numbers?”
Frank flinched as the priest's voice took on a savage ice, “You dare question the will of the Gods? They are his sacred numbers!” Frank took no time in making for the exit lest he catch the priest's attention.
The Senator looked up with a sudden thought, “Oh, Frank. Do you know what it is? Boy or girl?”
Smiling, Frank said, “Boy, Sir. Jack Prose.”
“Jack Prose. Strong name. Go see to that new warrior for the cause!” Frank resisted cringing barely. All he could muster was a nod as he left. Over my dead body!
* * *
Even those not in the Brats knew about the moody and brooding Frank Prose. So when he exited Newman’s tent, no one thought twice about him swearing up a storm. Making his way to the infirmary, the surgeons didn’t say a word as he walked up to each of the injured Brats, checking on their status. Nor did they resist when he walked up to those in frequency-induced comas offering a simple, “This is Frank, you fought well.” The surgeons knew that Frank and every other Sergeant would make this walk, the walk to count bodies.
The only man who would talk to sergeants on the walk was the head surgeon. He was a burly man with a great gray beard-part surgeon and part confessor. The head surgeon solemnly walked up to Frank, handed him a bottle of whiskey and said, “McCafferty, Peters, and Raymonds will join them. The other six will recover.”
Frank nodded. He took a swig of whiskey and began his widows’ report, “Seven on the field, and three in the tents. Jones, wife, no kids. Beane, wife, three kids. Thompson, no girl, mother. Konrad, fiancé, pregnant with first…”
The head surgeon nodded and scribed as Frank gave the recipient of each casualty notice.
Frank continued, “Expect Stark and Richter with ‘frequency sickness’ tomorrow. Stark had a Blue Coat cousin.”
The head surgeon nodded as he interpreted the code. He said, “I’ll see to them, personally. Get some rest, Frank.”
Frank waved off the advice as he made to leave, “I’ll sleep plenty when I’m dead.”
* * *
* * *
I TURNED TARANIS, AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT!
* * *
MATILDA AND ANGEL
YEAR: 521 AR
The wars have ended, and Senator Newman's Red Coats have become a new policing force to his kingdom. The Paladins. Yet, grace has begun to awakened. Some have found a sliver of our lost gift, in its bastardized form of Untuned Resonation. Without the nexus' aid, they're doomed.
It was well past curfew as the two sisters, Matilda and Angel, crept through the alleys of Zephyran. Far from the gilded streets, of Newman City, the capital of Senator Newman's principality, Zephyran was a village of humble defiance. Its sun-bleached bricks and stalwart people had been scored by the harsh desert wind for centuries; ever since The Reaping had laid the desolate metallic sands at Zephyran's doormat. The sands of the Thunder Fields. This was a place now only for the hard and stubborn. You had to be, to stand against the savage heat of day, and piercing cold of night. The rest eventually fled south to the more temperate lands surrounding the capital. Even the Paladins only had a token force. Any more than that, and they would stir up trouble. Fifteen years is too short a time to forget their sons in blue laid out.
A few close calls with the paladins and the two women were approaching the backdoor of the Saunters' house. Between scanning the alley’s end, Angel whispered to Matilda, “You sure about this man, Saunter? Can he be trusted?”
Matilda shivered against a breeze rolling in from the Thunder Fields. By far the less cautious of the two, Matilda jibbed, “He’s an Aural, Angel.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t change his mind. Keep sharp,” Angel whispered. To cement her point, she nodded to a scrap of paper hanging.
WANTED: MATILDA
Crime: Resonation, Larceny, Murder, Wanton Mayhem...
The picture was a couple years old, but a sharp eye could still peg her. Angel shook her head and knocked on the door twice. A shadow covered the peephole before the still-chained door opened a sliver. Angel whispered the password, “This night casts a mean scene.”
The one eye peeking through the crack relaxed. Saunter completed the password quickly, “Good thing the fire is light and bright.” He unchained the door and beckoned them in. Saunter glanced up and down the alley before retreating inside. “I'm J-James Saunter. Aural W-Watcher.” He raised a sleeve revealing a tattoo: a man mid-stride with arms outstretched, one hand open and one fist closed.
Angel gave James an appraising glare while watching his movements. James responded by dry-washing his hands, and feebly smiling. Matilda undid her cloak and rushed to the fire's edge. She sighed unabashedly as she renewed the warmth in her hands. No sleeping on the alley ground tonight. Matilda glanced over her shoulder at Angel. Matilda wasn’t surprised to see her sister’s stance-like a prowling cat. She poked fun at Angel's grim demeanor, “If you're done terrorizing the man, dear sister, maybe we could manage to get something warm to drink before dawn. We're safe, Angel.”
“Oh?” Angel's words and raised eyebrow cowed Matilda's smile. Continuing, Angel said, “And what if there are paladins aloft waiting to descend on us? Did you think of that, 'dear sister?' After all, it's not my face on a wanted poster.”
“If that were true his boy wouldn't be by the stairs watching us, he'd be in the arms of a paladin as a hostage.” A squeak from above cemented Matilda's point. The heavy steps of young Felix, like those of a condemned man, announced his entrance. Felix circled the bottom of the stairs to stand before the sisters. He was Felix Saunter; four and a quarter years old as he recited.