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Chapter 96: Establishing Authority
🕑 Added 2025-07-22 13:55:37 +0000 UTCRussell couldn't deny the allure of testing out his symbiote-enhanced Pidgeot, its black-and-red armored form promising speed and intimidation in equal measure. But practicality won out—riding that monstrous bird through the city would draw eyes like a beacon, screaming "villain arc" from a mile away. He'd be pulled over by every patrol officer in Northgate, and while dropping Director Blake's name might smooth things over, stirring up unnecessary drama wasn't on his agenda.
Instead, he opted for the mundane route, hailing a taxi right at his doorstep. Luck was on his side; this driver was a fresh face, sparing him any awkward chit-chat from past rides.
At the Everspring Clinic, Misty glanced up from her manicure, surprise flickering across her features as Russell entered her office. "Quick on the draw today," she remarked, gently blowing on her freshly painted crimson nails. "Figured you'd take your sweet time getting here."
Russell shrugged casually, settling into the chair opposite her. "Nothing better to do. So, what's the job this time?"
Misty, sensing his directness, skipped the small talk and handed over a crisp document. "Details are all there—knock yourself out."
He read through it meticulously, a heavy sigh escaping as the implications settled in. Here we go—the real test of loyalty. A sharp young detective had stumbled onto a minor Spirit Begging Society outpost in Northgate: a shabby crew of thugs who'd traded their freedom for cut-rate vampire cards and hollow promises of cardmaker status. The task? Neutralize the detective, with the base providing "support." Russell rubbed the bridge of his nose, already envisioning the headache of dealing with amateurs.
"Any way to skip mingling with these goons?" he asked, hoping for an out.
Misty didn't pause her nail-filing. "Your prerogative, but they've got the insider scoop. Might be worth the hassle."
Her offhand demeanor tipped him off—this wasn't a high-stakes exposure. If the base was truly blown, the Society wouldn't waste their golden boy on it. Probably just probing my commitment, he mused. Flat-out refusing? That'd scream suspicion. Better to play along.
With a nod, he bid her farewell and headed home, biding his time until nightfall. Daytime ops in sketchy spots were a recipe for unwanted attention; darkness was his ally.
Under the cover of evening, shadows clung to the unfinished building like a shroud, amplifying the tension within. A red-haired thug knelt before Blondie, the yellow-haired leader, his face streaked with desperate tears. "Boss, jail's not for me—please, fix this!"
Blondie's expression was a mask of frustration, his voice laced with barely contained anger. "I hammered it into you: low profile once you're in! But you? Assaulting a girl, getting eyeballed by a detective, and then hitting him with your card? Unregistered, no less!"
The redhead cowered, but Blondie pressed on. A simple bust could've been bribed away or served short time. But assaulting law enforcement with illegal vamp tech? The Society's mass-produced cards were bargain-bin garbage—bronze knockoffs, impossible to legitimize. Federation justice didn't play nice with black-market cardmakers; it was exile or execution.
As the redhead's fearful eyes bored into him, Blondie relented with a sigh. "Hold on. I escalated it to the bosses—let's hear their plan."
Tap... tap... tap...
Deliberate footsteps reverberated through the hollow structure, cutting the silence like a knife.
"Who?!" Blondie snarled, his pale vampire materializing in a haze of dark energy. The gang mirrored him, summoning a ragged pack of bloodthirsty fiends—blank-eyed and savage.
Into the dim light stepped a figure in polished silver armor, visor reflecting the faint glow like a mirror to their souls. Russell, armored and anonymous.
"I'll handle your screw-up," his voice grated through the helmet's modulator, cold and mechanical.
Blondie wasn't buying it, his stare icy. Proof or pain—that was the unspoken ultimatum.
Russell understood; trust demanded demonstration. With a raspy chuckle echoing from the suit, he unleashed his trump card.
"This ought to suffice."
From the pooling shadows at his feet rose Kiss-Shot Heart-Under-Blade, her presence a regal storm—golden locks flowing, eyes ablaze with timeless dominance.
THUD.
Uncommanded, every vampire knelt in unison, a tidal wave of deference sweeping the room. Then came the macabre twist: one thug's gaze locked on Kiss-Shot in rapt obsession, his butterfly knife drifting inexorably toward his own throat.
Blondie's experience kicked in, a primal terror gripping his core. "An... alien vampire!" Not the Society's cookie-cutter spawn, but a bespoke creation from a singular legend—potentially feeble, or in this case, an overwhelming force.
His own bronze-blue vamp groveling? It screamed superiority—higher rank or unmatched quality. He couldn't risk a clash. A faint message flickered from his card: Your Excellency.
Vampire ranks were absolute; inferiors bowed or broke.
Sweat slicked Blondie's skin as he dropped to one knee. "My apologies for the oversight, exalted one! Please, recall your summon!"
Satisfied with the display of authority, Russell complied. Kiss-Shot faded back into the shadows, tension easing like a receding storm.
"Now," his modulated voice demanded, resonating with command, "brief me on the details."
Comments
Raphael Espinoza Angulo
Poor detective
