Chapter 4
Qhawa Villca knew the day would come. She had anticipated it arriving much sooner, but her adoptive father surprised her with his discipline. Wayne had put away the suit for good after the terrible incident and inevitable fallout. Put it away and started his new life. A regular civilian. A good life, if uneventful one.
She knew it ate at him, though. The need. The unquenchable thirst to right wrongs that occurred every minute, every hour, every day. She had never seen a person more devoted to justice. That made it all the more amazing that he could withstand the temptation for so long. He had made a promise, true. One he thought he could keep, despite every fiber in his being compelling him to do otherwise. He fooled himself, even fooled Arthur into buying the act after years of inaction.
But he couldn't fool Qhawa. She knew it was a simple matter of time.
She didn't know exactly when it started. But she saw clues over the last few months. It was the way his eyes danced when he stared into space, the anticipatory gleam she recognized from when he used to stalk the streets of Neo York and take down criminals and their enterprises. It was in the impatience of his mannerisms when she visited, as if he couldn't wait for her to leave. She thought of bringing it up. Saying the words that would put the matter in the open, dare him to deny it. But she didn't.
She knew it wouldn't have made a difference.
The quiet hum of the hovering wheelchair made her aware of Arthur's presence. She turned. His blond hair was perfectly styled, his tailored suit impeccable as always. He regarded her with red-rimmed eyes. She was surprised by the emotion in his stare. Arthur had made it clear that he never wanted to see Wayne again. Their last words together were sharp and bitter, weapons that stabbed and cut worse than any wounds they had suffered together.
She glanced at the wheelchair. Perhaps not more than that. It was Arthur's crippling injury that ended everything, a parting gift from Mortis in their last battle with him and his minions. Wayne faced a terrible choice: save Arthur, or allow Mortis to succeed in leveling the Warrens and killing thousands. Wayne chose to stop Mortis; a crime Arthur never forgave.
"Hello, Arthur."
"Qhawa." He stared at the tombstone. A simple marker with a name and date engraved, decorated with a small series of indentations.
"He started again, didn't he?"
She nodded.
"He promised he would quit. He promised."
She said nothing, letting Arthur seethe in peace. When he finally broke down in shuddering sobs, only then did she walk over and place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her own cheeks were wet.
"He tried, Arthur. I know he tried. Sometimes that is all we can do."
He clutched her hand and squeezed, chest heaving. "I know. It's just… I wish I could have told him. Told him… I forgave him. I forgave him a long time ago."
"He knew, Arthur. I believe he knew."
She turned at the sound of soft footsteps. An older man approached, bent over his cane but still steady in stride. His wavy mane of hair and thick beard was entirely white. A bouquet of flowers was in his hand.
He gave her a friendly nod. "Ms. Villca."
She walked over and hugged him. "Abe. Glad you made it."
He harrumphed. "Like I've any better to do. Retirement suits me no better than it suited him."
"You're too old for RCE work. Be happy with your wine cellar and your books."
He chuckled. "You always were too direct for own good, girly. That's why I like you." He gave Arthur a keen glance. "Nice to see you here, Arty. Had my doubts."
Arthur gave him a sad smile. "We were family. Once. Only right to pay my respects."
"Yeah, the dead always get respect." Abe knelt and laid the roses at the foot of the marker. "The living just get ignored. How is the delivery boy business going?"
Arthur sighed. "Do you really want to talk about this now?"
"Goldman is a leech. A spider with webs threaded across the whole city. Wayne would never have let a rotten scumbag like that—"
Qhawa placed a forestalling hand on his arm. "This is not the time, Abe."
He sighed through his thick mustaches. "You're right, of course. My apologies, Arthur."
"It's all right, Abe. We're all upset."
Abe turned to the gravestone. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a flask and tipped it, spilling whiskey on the grass before raising it. "To a brave man, and a damn fool. You tried to make a difference, Wayne. It always gets you in the end." He downed a swig, paused, then handed it to Qhawa. She took a swallow, winced at the burn. Offered it to Arthur, who shrugged and downed a swallow. Wiping his mouth, he stared at the gravestone. Qhawa took his hand. Abe continued drinking.
They stayed there for a long time.
Jett waited until the others left.
He was glad to know the old man had people who cared about him. Even if it was a pitiful amount, just three people to mourn a man who gave his life without complaint. And an odd lot. The man in the high-tech wheelchair was young, in his late twenties. The woman appeared around Jett's age. He couldn't guess her ethnicity. With her bold cheekbones, bronzed skin and almond eyes, she could have claimed a number of indigenous lineages. The old man had the look of someone used to giving orders. Ex-military or law enforcement, Jett guessed. They were all that showed up. It appeared Wayne Thomas was not a popular man. Or perhaps a very private one.
Who will mourn you when you die? Who will cry at your grave?
Jett exhaled a shaky breath. Everyone he knew was long dead. Dust sifted through three hundred years of trembling earth. He was just a ghost, the spirit of a man who died with his team on the eve of the world's destruction. In a way, he was very much like Wayne. He just hadn't been buried yet.
Wayne Thomas. A simple name. Not a simple man. Jett did his research. Examined every bit of info he could pull up on Vigil. Most of it was supposition and urban legend. But some of it was real. Something possessed Wayne to suit up in outlandish attire and take on crime that went unnoticed or untouched by Response units. Sightings were reported everywhere, but most often in the Warrens. The cesspool of a gutter city. The Blind Spot, as its residents dubbed it. Surveillance avoided it, The RCE took their time, often arriving just to clean up the mess. No one cared about what happened in the Warrens.
No one but Vigil.
Why did you care so much, old man?
Sporadic reports indicated a nearly decade-long time-span in which Vigil was active. The most sensational reports told of an archenemy, a terrorist named Mortis with an underground lair. Illustrations depicted a man with theatrical flair, wearing a skull-faced mask and hood like Death himself. Sounded too much like a comic book, but Jett had lived in an era where men developed unimaginable powers before it all came to an end in the Imperial War. Whatever the case, there were many accounts of Vigil's activities during that time.
Then without warning Vigil vanished. No more sightings, no more stories. A city that once dared to dream of something better descended into darkness again. Crime shot up; fear imprisoned the residents. Whatever war Vigil fought was over, with no victor ever declared. Years passed, and despondency became the norm again. Hunters and prey. Takers and losers.
"You see something wrong… you do something about it. No matter what the cost. You do something."
Jett shook his head. "But what do you do when everything is wrong? What then?"
"Take it one day at a time."
Jett's heart leaped in his throat at the sound of the familiar voice. He whirled around.