To Your New Era

Elliot didn't finish his crossword puzzle that morning, only getting through twelve of the thirty-six clues. It now lay incomplete atop his pillow, waiting for his eventual return in the small hours of tomorrow morning.

"Let's rip off the bandage, shall we?" he had muttered to himself as he entered Deity Division's radio room. 0001 in the morning. By 0644, the bandage was still peeling off by the millimetre, taking small chunks of skin along with it while he bit another divot into his thumbnail.

Not a pip from Centre Central two-two, oh-nine, six-five, or three three, former two specifically covering the street, latter two the surrounding block.

Rush hour started in fifteen minutes, but ever the early risers, the relatively populous street was already seeing an influx of morning foot-traffic. Thoroughfare, both pedestrian and vehicular, meant the tally of potential suspects went ever higher by the second. Couple it with the fact that they could only assume the nature of the meeting, and the result was near certain disappointment. Even then, each tick of the clock slowly stole the word 'near' from him too.

His handful of personnel was divided in two; one team scrutinised the street itself, tallying the rough descriptions of every pedestrian entering and exiting, while the other collated the stream of information on 'suspect individuals' in the surrounding areas.

Elliot listened to the slow tide of foot traffic begin. The Deity's Eyes' struggle showed through their voice-boxes, as words slowly fell behind the influx. He kept his eyes glued to the street-team, waiting for anything substantial.

Beak. Blue flannel.

Human man. Navy suit jacket. Briefcase.

Beak. Blue suit jacket. Handbag.

"How many Spirits on the ground team?"

"Four Beaks, sir."

"Have them focused purely on the Aether. They'll get a better read from down there than we ever could."

"Yes, sir."

"Sir. I've noted something."

Elliot's ears perked up. He swivelled on his heel.

"Hit me."

"Human female. Black dress, handbag is talking to Beak female, blue blouse."

"Get the ground teams to look into it."

Better than nothing, but five Ixa said it was a false alarm, but kept that part to himself.

Assuming they missed nothing in the translated message, there was no specific address for the meeting. It was a busy through-road, but not a thriving business district either. Blocks on either side were residential; more people were exiting their homes than entering at such a time of day.

"Report back on the conversation; nothing suspicious, but we have actionable identities for future reference, sir."

"Noted."

Elliot kept his Ixa, but lost just a bit more of his sanity. Another dud added to the pile; not that he blamed anybody for it. A handful of words, barely a single sentence, made up the basis of their targeting package. Barely a sniff of their culprit, the op was out of obligation more than anything else.

"Beak, black suit jacket, small hat, briefcase."

"Beak. Green dress. Briefcase."

"Two individuals talking behind an alleyway."

Probably just a drug deal. He directed a ground agent to it, anyway.

Giving his tired legs a break from the monotony, he walked over to the street surveillance station. Two officers in charge of recording every passer-by, another to note down any 'irregularities', whatever that meant. All with their heads deep in their headphones, he approached without a single word, and quietly peered over their shoulders.

Behind the brown locks of a lady about his age was a list, and underneath the nose of a man twice his years was another one; the former, those who entered the street, the latter, those who exited. Drenched in shorthand notes, he could barely decipher them, but the average time for somebody passing through the street—walking from one end to the other—was two minutes. He could somewhat discern that, albeit with a fair number of variables.

He passed his eye down the lists, matching names on the first with those on the second.

It was a matter of sheer curiosity, but as he extended a finger towards the first list, the possibility struck him as something greater than zero. As much as he doubted himself, he couldn't ignore it either.

"Beak. Pinstripe. Briefcase. I don't see that anywhere on the other list. This was recorded when?"

The officers scrutinised the list once more but came to the same conclusion Elliot had.

"Five minutes ago, sir. They haven't been seen since."

Briefcase. Add a briefcase into the mix and things would make a little more sense.

"Keep CC two-two on traffic surveillance, move oh-nine around to look for the briefcase. Ground teams six-five and three-three move to look for a beak in a pinstripe suit. Three-three and Beaks on ground team focus on Aether searching. Can't forgo the possibility the bastard pulled a disappearing act into the shadows."

"Yes, sir."

"Lovely."

A disappearing act would somehow make things easier to explain, but that sort of magic didn't fly under professional noses, and they had many.

CC oh-nine was tallying up briefcases one by one, but none were out of place, all in the hands of their original owners. Just a few more minutes and they would lose the avenue of investigation. Elliot couldn't let both leads disappear into thin air; picking one and pivoting would be his best chance at coming away with something.

"Stick CC two-two on the building interiors and get me a map of the block. Do we have one on hand?"

"Yes, sir, it's over here."

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

The lady officer beside him passed over a freshly folded map. He unfurled it and held it in front of his face. A copy of an annual city survey—typical resource if Spec Ops couldn't make a map themselves, trade-off being that it covered several blocks at once, too broad for the task at hand.

His street-of-interest was one of many, a vein in a wider city outlined in blue blocks, red streets and purple sewer pipes.

There. Elliot squinted, trying to make out what was there, or rather what wasn't.

Sewer pipes ran crosswise paths along much of the city, servicing block after block as smaller inlets flowed into larger ones. But the city was old—older than sewage pipes.

"Catacombs."

"Yes, sir?"

Elliot folded the map again. "Daughter went on an excursion. The tour guide said that some older blocks still use the old catacomb system for plumbing. Bastard's in the catacombs. Is there an entrance on the street?"

"Yes, sir, redirecting CC two-two now."

"Someone scrounge up a map of the catacomb system in the district, now! Direct ground team to every entry and exit we know of in the area."

"Yes, sir."

"Can we get a line to Ground Team three? Patch me through to it once you've got it."

"Ground team three, do you copy?"

"Dad?" Iris whispered, fingers clamping down on the heavy transmission button. Crestana leaned in, pressing her own ear to the speaker.

"Yes, hi darling. Remember the field trip you took with Crestana the other day?"

"The catacombs? Why—oh…"

"Exactly. We're working on finding the entry point, but once we do, we need you in there first."

"I'll tell mum then—"

"Maybe…maybe hold off on that. She won't like what I have in mind."

Iris shrank further into the roof gutter, subconsciously aware of Evlayn's hawkish eyes staring at her from somewhere nearby. "What is it?"

"We lost our man close to eight minutes ago. To make things worse, we think he's a Beak, too. Pinstripe suit, maybe a briefcase. Might've hopped into the shadows after giving us the slip. Do you feel confident following that up, Crestana?"

"Uh…yes? But I can't help if I don't know where he's gone."

"That's where Iris comes in. Gas. And a lot of it. Can you do that?"

Enough to flood the local catacomb network. Her gas was volatile; if she wanted to draw the attention of the rush-hour city above, bar her beams of light there was no better method.

"It's the quickest way, but if you—"

"I will, but Mum won't like it."

"I know. The stars have aligned for us today, but we've used up all our luck. It's time we made our own."

She felt her teeth grind together, her toes curl in her shoes.

"Iris," Crestana whispered, spurring her on, but in no particular direction. The choice was hers.

"It's risky, but we have to."

"S'what happens when you fly with me. Come on, I'll cover you. The entryway is to your east; cross the street six doors down."

Iris pocketed the radio inside her jacket and scouted the location. A small, square divot, outlined by brass lining, neatly tucked away in a back alley.

"There," she whispered.

"Let's go," Crestana said, sinking into shadow. Iris disassembled her fraying ends and held a moldable lump of putty-like purple in her hand. She stood and sprinted lengthwise across the building's roof, sticking the putty to the gutter like she'd seen schoolboys dispose of chewed resin.

Then she jumped, the putty stretching as she fell, holding her weight as she approached the cobbled alley below. Crestana waited for her, hopping on the spot—her pre-spar routine.

Iris landed and reformed the matter into a wristband. Crestana looked up at the roof, then back down to Iris.

"Eight points."

"Thank you."

They exited the alley, crossed the sidewalk at a brisk pace and navigated the intermittent traffic. Iris's radio buzzed again.

"Directed some ground units to every other entry way in the area."

"What about our cover story?"

"Don't worry. I'm working on something."

They turned the corner and ducked into the alley. Crestana sank through the entry's brass lining as Iris made herself scarce, turning her matter into liquid and letting it seep into the cracks. There, it solidified, dislodging the weighty slab from its place, enough for her to slip through and land on the other side.

"Ready?" Crestana said as Iris replaced the seal above their heads.

"I don't have a choice."

She closed her eyes and exhaled, letting her concentration run amok and her mind off its leash. Whatever control she had, she released it and kick-started the chain.

The ends of her hair disintegrated, then another few centimetres, then another handful.

"It's at your shoulder blades now."

Iris opened her eyes to a thick purple glaze across her vision. The gas was spreading quickly—but for now, all she felt was trickling water, cold metal pipes and rough, porous brick.

A blip on the radar was all she needed, the coattails of an Aether signature, but real life a few metres above their heads was diluting her vision. She tried to filter the noise as best she could as she relinquished more and more control—more and more hair.

The water, metal, and brick became static, a new baseline for her to stand on and search for something more remarkable.

And that came.

She caught the figure, travelling through the catacombs too fast to be running, and tailed it with gas. Reclaiming what was now unnecessary, she forged her armour and her Beast.

"Get on," she said, offering Crestana a hand. The moment she was behind Iris, they took off.

Her gas had flooded the nearby network, with only a vague sense of distance between each route. Shortcuts weren't an option—she'd rely on sheer speed.

Crestana tightened her grip around Iris's waist as she rounded corners, balancing on the fine line between speed and acid reflux, if Spirits had an equivalent. Her Beast took over the reins, mindlessly following the gas as she focused entirely on maintaining a bead on their target.

No physical features, just an Aether signature tethered to a wall.

Two hook turns and a left later, they were practically on them. As expected, even through the haze of purple, Iris could see no physical figure.

"Crestana."

"I know."

Iris swerved closer to the wall, and Crestana extended a hand, brushing her fingers against the shadowed bricks as though it were rippling water. She stood on Iris's Beast and leapt in, becoming nothing more than an Aether signature herself.

Perhaps it was another testament to her all-too-human features, the fact that as she pursued their culprit, her mind couldn't help but interpret their movements as sprinting footsteps and panting breath.

Running wasn't their forte, and it wasn't hers either, but between their long strides and her better pace, she was making little progress.

Long strides. Uniquely long. Judging by the impression of their 'footsteps', she guessed they were wearing something with hard soles. To discern anything further, she had to squint and take those impressions and distil them into interpretations.

Pinstripe suit. She couldn't see colour, but a rough space she could feel. Jagged edges, straight lines; a tailored silhouette. Best guess dictated they were after the same person.

But no briefcase.

She gained on him, and a set of turns only shortened their distance. Still, her sword was out of reach.

Iris could pursue him forever, hunt him down until he could run no more, but a war of attrition was too risky. No matter how much Mr Maxwell insisted he had a plan, to cover her tracks across an entire city was promising too much.

No; she'd have to end it in a flash. Rip the band-aid off.

She found him in the vague darkness; the rough area that constituted a roughly hewn shape.

And she choked it.

Wrapped her fingers around it.

But shadows were slippery. Nothingness tended to spill over unwanted.

Crestana felt the culprit's presence disappear from her realm, and she followed suit, jumping back into the catacombs and landing on her feet, sword drawn.

Pinstripe suit, hard-sole shoes. A beak of high stature; a quiet, yet artisan mask dictated so. Collapsed on the ground, it was now all bathed in filthy water as they rolled around, seizing.

Crestana raised her sword.

"Who are you?"

The culprit tried to regain control of their body as Crestana approached.

More limp splashing.

Crestana turned to look back.

Iris was out of her armour, barely able to regain her breath.

"Crap."

The unmistakable click of a safety unlatching.

Crestana ducked, covering Iris as ear-shattering gunshots tore through the tunnels. A pain brushed her shoulder and leapt out through her voice box.

Iris returned fire, deafening Crestana as she squeezed the trigger sporadically.

Crestana turned back—the culprit was melding into the shadows again.

To choke enough Aether to stop them; it was still too soon. Crestana felt the familiar numbness in her extremities.

Iris, her eyes drooping, pressed Mrs Hardridge's handgun into Crestana's chest. In a split-second where hesitation hadn't yet reached her, she found her target in the handgun's iron-sights. Only to realise she was yet to ever do such a thing.

The culprit was already clutching their shoulder. A few more hits and they'd struggle to absorb Aether. Just a few more hits.

Just a few more.

Iron sights.

Injured.

Iron sights.

Iris.

A shell.

Shell of her father.

Shell of her ambition.

Iris passed out in her arms. The culprit was gone.

Iris was bleeding. Badly.