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rogueshadeaux · 5 months

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Chapter Twenty-Seven — Patrons

That's my brother. I couldn’t lose him. That’s my brother.

5.4k words | 19 min read time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, body horror in a way? cops [ACAB]

I fought to turn in place, ignoring the stinging soreness in my body and how the shards of glass from the broken window sliced into my knees. “Brent?” I repeated more urgently. Dr. Sims materialized into pixels and was gone, flitting out of the window beside him. I pulled myself over the side of the driver’s seat to look at Brent, who was limp and unmoving. My heart dropped in my chest, and I immediately began to shake his shoulder. “Hey man, come on,”

The truck groaned a bit as some weight was added, and Dad’s face appeared in the shattered square where the back passenger window used to be. “Jean, are you okay?” He demanded.

“Dad, Brent won’t—” I cut off, only glancing at him for a moment before turning back to Brent. There was some blood coming out of his nose. “Come on, asshole, wake up—”

There was that crystalline sound that always accompanied Dr. Sims’ powers, and the passenger-side door was yanked off of its hinges with a grind of metal.

“Come out of there,” Dad demanded above, looking at me from the hole where the passenger’s side door was.

I shook my head, trying to push up off my knees to get a better look at his face. He just wouldn’t move.

Getting up to look at Brent gave Dr. Sims enough leverage to grab me by my arm, and he pulled me up with a surprising amount of strength for a dude who looked like he avoided heavy lifting at all costs. Dr. Sims dragged me out of the wreckage, my legs getting cut up in the shards sticking out of the window’s track as he yanked me out of the smoking car and flitted down with the aid of his powers, setting me down on the road.

The truck that had been chasing us was entirely decimated, the hood of it denting in so far that the back of the truck lifted up a bit. The mangled bodies of the thieves chasing us slumped in the seats or out of the broken windshield. The other truck was nowhere to be seen.

Dr. Sims gave me a one-over, noting the little bits of blood littering my body and asking, “Are you hurt?”

I blinked, looking away from our destroyed truck to him, then to where he was looking at my body. My side was bleeding again, staining my shirt.

I shook my head, coughing again and trying to get to my feet. Who the fuck cared about that right now? Brent was hurt.

Dr. Sims’ hand came to my shoulder and he forced me back down. “You need to stay sitting Jean, at least until we know how injured you are—”

Dad’s smoke form flitted out of the truck, to the road by the roof. “Eugene!” He shouted. “Help me turn the truck!”

Dr. Sims hesitated, looking at Dad as he hooked his hands on the truck, then to me. “Don’t move,” he stressed before disappearing in a pixelated blue cloud.

He flitted over the truck and beside Dad, the two of them straining to lift the truck even with their powers. I shakily got to my feet, ignoring the stench of rubber and smoke and death to begin closing the gap between me and the totaled truck. Between me and my brother.

The truck settled, and Brent’s form followed the momentum and slumped over the center console. My heart practically left my chest. “Brent?” I called, breaking into a jog.

Dad flitted to the passenger side and clambered in, hooking his hands under Brent’s arms to begin pulling him out. Dr. Sims grabbed Brent’s legs as soon as he was able, and the two laid him down gently on the ground, Dad immediately checking him for a pulse.

I used my powers to dash the rest of the way towards them and skidded to a stop on my feet just as Dad pulled away from Brent, and Dr. Sims moved in his place, hands lighting up blue as he began to slam them into his chest to perform CPR.

I was glued in place by fear, frozen by it. Everything around me seemed to slow down until I was able to watch how every dense blue pixel of Dr. Sims’ power tried to spread into Brent’s chest and restart his heart, giving him a bit more strength to push his steeled rib cage in. I could see into the truck now that Brent’s form wasn’t there; there was a nice indent in the dash of the car in the form of Brent’s chest, wires and glass and everything scattered around the seat. He had somehow taken the force from the crash chest-first.

Dad’s jaw was so steeled it looked like it’d wire shut forever. “C’mon, son,” he whispered through grit teeth. “C’mon.”

“D, see if there’s any smoke in his lungs,” Dr. Sims grunted, putting more force into his presses.

Dad tilted Brent’s head back, using one hand to open his mouth while the other came up to hover just above it, skin going dark as the smoke pulled from inside of him and swirled around in a lazy ambience. Dad’s fingers flared, and the smoke ringlets around his wrists spun faster.

Something slowly escaped from Brent’s mouth, pulling from somewhere deep in his throat; the smoke from the accident and whatever move Dad had pulled, the bit that he never got to force out on hacking coughs. Dr. Sims kept punching a beat into his chest, the blue on his arms glowing stronger.

My hands were on my lips now as I silently sobbed, eyes so wide the tears pooled as I refused to blink. My mind could only chant how that’s my brother, again and again and again as I watched Dad and his friend fight to bring him back to life. That's my brother. I couldn’t lose him. That’s my brother.

The blue of Dr. Sims’ power seemed to charge, glowing brighter before his next push down and following the movement; there was a deafening pulse that made me flinch as the energy of his power shot down into Brent’s chest, charging the underlying steel in it blue in some odd attempt to shock his heart back to life. The remnants breezed past, ruffling my hair. Pushing away the breath I was already barely taking in. That was my brother. Why wouldn’t he wake up?

Dr. Sims’ arms charged up again, and there was another pulse, the bass accompanying it making my ears throb. How much time had passed? It felt like a lifetime. How long was too long?

My hands shook and my eyes got too blurry to see past by the time the third pulse of energy pushed out of Dr. Sims, the blowback from it clearing the tears in my eyes. Brent’s chest was now glowing a dim blue, the energy shifting deep in his chest.

Dr. Sims stopped his compressions, arms falling limply to his sides as he huffed. Dad fell back from his knees, staring blankly at Brent, smoke dissipating from his hand. Why did they stop, why weren’t they trying anymore?

I took a step back, shaking my head. No. No, no, no, no, no no nonononono.

There was a pensive moment where nothing moved. The only sounds came from the groans of our broken and beaten truck as the stuff in the engine settled and the swampland below us. Everything fell to my senses then, engraving in my memory forever; the way Brent’s sternum glowed, the blood from his nose, the tears in Dad’s eyes. The way the glass scattered around Brent caught the warm light of the bridge’s lamps and reflected them back like stars. The small gashes along his arm that was once facing the window of the truck. The smoke still in the air from our wreck froze in place, painting a picture of a moment that would haunt me forever.

The blue in Brent’s chest faded, and Dr. Sims shifted to watch it intensely. There was something in his face that made me pause, that had me looking between him and Brent’s body in hope.

The blue suddenly flashed, and with it came something else; a large aura of steel ripped from every pore in Brent’s body, pulling away and then snapping back to him just as quickly. The hit from their return was just enough to shock Brent back to life, their stabbing into his skin making him gasp out, eyes shooting open.

Dad scrambled on his knees, “Brent,” he rushed, “Can you hear me?”

Brent couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “What the fuck,” he groaned, coughing.

Dad laughed breathlessly, like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Brent cursed. He’d be fine. I choked back a sob of relief. “You okay?” Dad asked.

Brent blinked hard a few times, head moving to the side to look at the destroyed truck. “What happened?” He asked, trying to sit up. Dr. Sims put a hand on his shoulder.

“You need to lie down,” he advised. “Your Conducrine Gland needs time to work before you start moving.”

Brent looked at him, bewildered. “My what?” He asked.

“It’s the little sack that makes the proteins that creates your powers,” Dad chimed in. “You need to let it heal your body all the way before you move. You got hit pretty hard, bud.”

Pretty hard was the understatement of the century.

Brent laid his head back down, blinking hard. He stayed there for a moment before his head popped back up and he said, “Shit, Jean, where’s Jean—”

“She’s right there,” Dad pointed in my direction. Something about the acknowledgement broke the spell the fear had over me, and I was rushing over to Brent, crouching down on my knees.

“Are you okay?” I demanded, looking at the cuts and bruises on Brent’s body. Steel was slowly overtaking the red under the slices, healing him from the inside out.

“Are you okay?” he asked pointedly instead.

I glanced down at myself; my jeans had ripped at some point, and my palms were bleeding, little holes stabbed in them from the glass. I looked like a mess. My fingers moved to my side, where my stitching had popped, and came back bloody. “Jean,” Dad got up from where he was sitting. “Let me see your side.”

I nodded, standing and letting Dad raise my shirt, getting a bit woozy when he did. The gash on my side that had only been stitched for a week had lost three of those stitches, the barely-welded skin trying to pull away from itself.

Dad gave me a look over — checking my face, examining my cast to make sure it didn’t break — his brow furrowing the entire time. “I told you to stay on the floorboard, Regina,” he began to chastise.

There was a calm anger in his voice, like he was trying to keep himself from yelling at me. “Wh—” I cut off. “Dad, you can’t be serious right now.”

“I’m very serious.” His eyes left the cut he was pulling glass out of to bore into mine. “You will listen to me when I tell you to do something.”

“Dr. Sims was shot, and Brent was driving.” I defended. “You fell off the car! What, was I just supposed to sit and wait—”

“No, what you’re not supposed to do is put yourself in front of a bunch of bullets when you can’t heal.” Dad shot back. “You should have stayed in the truck!”

“They would have shot up the truck anyways!”

“I was dealing with them.” Dad said through grit teeth. “I would have been able to deal with them if I didn’t also have to worry about keeping you safe.”

I blinked. Was Dad…blaming me for this? “I was trying to keep everyone from getting hurt—” I started, Dad cutting me off.

“That’s not your job, Jean!” Dad growled. “We’re not going through all of this to help you just so you can throw it away on some stupid heroics. You want to be helpful? Do what you’re told. Don’t make us drop out of the sky just to save the people you’re sacrificing in the process. Stop throwing yourself into danger trying to do something you can’t.”

My voice died in my throat. Dad really was blaming me for this. For what happened to Brent, for the destruction. Was he right? We wouldn’t be here in the first place if it wasn’t for me.

Yet again, something else happened that was my fault.

All the defensive spirit left my chest and I looked down at the asphalt. “Okay.” I simply muttered.

Dad stayed there, his feet unmoving, before I heard him sigh above me. “We’re gonna have to call the cops.” He said, like it was the worst possible option. “Get ready for a long night.”

It was indeed a very long night.

EMT rushed in with the multiple police cruisers, checking me out at Dad’s insistence. All I gained was more scratches and bruises, and the stitching on my side gained two butterfly strips and the insistence that I take it easy the next few weeks till the others dissolved.

That was the first two hours. The other five were spent being questioned at the police station.

There was either disdain or acceptance of our presence at the police station, no in between. There was one officer who handed Brent and I wrapped sandwiches, and another who sneered great, more of their kind. I’d say it was some good cop/bad cop facade if they were actually asking us any questions. We were just asked our version of events, and told to stay put. I was falling asleep sitting up in the chair by the time they released Dad and Dr. Sims from wherever they were in the back of the station.

The room Brent and I were in was a meeting room of some kind, all of our things on the long table after being searched through. Dad came in first, rubbing his eyes. “You two okay?” He asked.

I nodded. Brent was folded over the side of the table, head in his arms, dozing off.

Dad looked at our things splayed out across the top of the table, and groaned. “My fucking truck,” he muttered. He plopped down in a chair, elbows going to the table, head in hands. “There goes transportation.”

“We’re in the center of the city,” I started. “Don’t they have trolleys here?”

Dad shook his head. “Not for where we’re going. But we would have had to ditch the truck anyways, so this doesn’t change much.”

My brow furrowed. “Where….where are we going?”

Dad leaned his head back, keeping his eyes closed. “The person that could help us lives in the swamplands. We would have had to take a boat.”

I rubbed my eyes, yawning. “Where would we be staying if he’s in the swamp?” I asked. I thought he’d be in the city, or at least close enough to it for us to have a hotel.

Dad shrugged. “Offered us his place. We’ll figure out sleeping situations when we get there.”

I nodded, eyes going back to the grain of the table. Every time I blinked, I could see Brent laid out on the asphalt, in that middle ground between dead and alive. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. He wouldn’t have almost died if it wasn’t for me.

Dr. Sims was in the room a few moments later, looking just as beat down. “We’re the ones chased and robbed, and they treat us like the criminals.” he sneered, pulling his bag close and unzipping it. “We’re lucky we’re getting off on technicalities,”

"Might be a conduit safe haven, but that doesn't mean everyone's still welcoming," Dad muttered.

Dr. Sims opened up the laptop, checking to see if the screen was shattered and closing it just as quickly when he realized it wasn’t. He then pulled another one out, doing the same. “Well if they bothered doing anything about the highway robbers, we wouldn't be in this mess.” Dr. Sims muttered. It was the angriest I’d ever seen him. I didn't even know the guy could get angry.

“We need to leave soon,” Dad groaned. He must have been considering passing out right here in the meeting room like I was.

Dr. Sims sighed. “Yeah.” He closed the second laptop and shoved them both back in the bag. “Alright, come on. Let’s get going.”

We stepped out of the police precinct and into the sun, tired, sore, and groggy.

The rest of the city wasn’t feeling our laze, though.

We were deep in what I had to assume was downtown, surrounded by neon signs and tall buildings all in some square. It was this blend of modern and vintage that shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did; Greek Revival buildings with fairy lights wired in their wrought iron, multi-story brick buildings with moving neon signs. This didn’t look like the decimated New Marais we were all told about, at least.

But then again, we were coming out of a police station after nearly being sniped, so.

Brent and I only had one bag each; my big mountaineering bag was on my back, and Brent was holding the handles of his old football equipment duffle bag. Dad brought his thick briefcase along with his own hiking bag, and Dr. Sims was able to fit both the straps of his backpack and the sash of the messenger bag on his body comfortably. We definitely looked like tourists, but we at least didn’t have much to lug around — so it wasn’t too strange when Dad suggested, “Let’s walk. We’ll find a trolley to the docks if we don’t just get there first.”

“Thought you said New Marais was unsafe,” Brent tried to joke. I could tell it was only partially in jest; even with his Conduit abilities, parts of his skin were still pink from the bullets. He definitely didn’t look interested in gaining more marks.

“That’s why you two will walk in front of us, and we’ll make sure nothing happens. Don’t stop, keep walking, do not engage anyone that tries to talk to you.” Dad commanded.

I wasn’t in any place to challenge him. I’m sure he was still mad about the last time I didn’t listen to him.

New Marais was a city I could get lost in, if given the chance. Partially because I had no fucking idea where I was going, but also because it had an allure to it I’d never caught from anywhere else. There were no alleys, no spaces between doorstops. The porches on the second floors seemed to run for miles, curving with the buildings as we entered some giant square with a huge cathedral in the middle.

“Never would have thought the land of the sinners would have such a big church.” I quipped.

Brent froze dead in his tracks, looking around. “I know where we are.” He murmured. His eyes widened in that way they always did when he was close to some sort of architectural archaeology, and he exclaimed, “No way, I know where we are! Jean, c’mon!”

And then he just took off, much to Dad’s protests.

“Brent!” Dad shouted as Brent disappeared somewhere behind a crowd, a group of men performing little stunts to the cheers of the watchers, passing around a bucket for change after each trick. Dad cursed under his breath, saying, “C’mon, we’ve gotta keep an eye on him,” and rushing off just as fast, leaving Dr. Sims and I to chase after him in his wake.

Brent was hard to track in the crowd, something Dad was struggling with too as he shouted, “Brent!” again in an effort to call him back. But, between two parents and their baby’s stroller, I caught a glimpse of him, saying, “Dad, over here!”

I became the leader, weaving through the crowd with a coordinated ease that Dad and Dr. Sims were struggling to follow. I didn’t worry about that; I just kept my eyes on Brent as he dodged his way through the people, skittering to a stop at the front of the cathedral’s gardens.

“Brent!” I called, managing to find a gap wide enough to jog the rest of the way to him. He didn’t move, eyes staying glued ahead as I got closer to chastise him. “Dude, you’ve gotta—”

I glanced over and cut off, finally realizing what he was looking at.

The cathedral was huge, elevated gardens and tiered steps leading up to the steepled gothic church with a giant rosetta window in the arch of the lancets. At least, I think that’s what those curvy bits just over the entrance were called. I’d ask Brent, but he was transfixed on what stood in front of the cathedral.

Just up the first flight of steps past the iron gates, a terrace cut into the stairs, this huge pile of concrete sat up in its center and lit up despite it being the middle of the morning. It would have looked like a bad disposal of some concrete left over from the church’s repairs if it wasn’t for what was sticking out of it. It was an old step, ripped up and immortalized because of what was embedded in it: Cole MacGrath’s Amp. A two-pronged prod made of nothing but metal, his weapon of choice as he fought back the Beast and saved the world from its destruction. Trapped in concrete and now forever preserved, the closest we would get to an Arthurian sword in the stone.

Behind it on a pedestal stood the man himself, cast in stone. Cole MacGrath’s effigy stood with one foot propped up on an extra little slab of concrete, posed as if ready to leap forward and punch whatever was in his way. One fist was balled and ready to do so. The other had its fingers flared, ready to call upon that electricity I remember he was blessed with and strike with who knew what. Maybe bolts of lightning. Maybe simple arcs.

I think what took me off guard was how normal the man looked, even in commemoration. The most eye-catching thing about him was the Amp in a sling bag on his back. Otherwise he just looked…normal. Really short hair, a tee-shirt. He looked like a regular man, someone who couldn’t have been capable of what he did.

Maybe that’s what was most inspiring about it. That he wasn’t some god, but under it all, a man.

“The Patron Saint of New Marais,” Brent breathed, stepping closer to the closed iron gate and lacing his fingers in the spaces. I followed close, as if it’d help me get a better look.

“Is this…” I drew off, looking around. “Is this where it happened?”

Brent nodded.

Somewhere, right in front of me or behind me or maybe even where I was standing, was where Cole MacGrath took his last stand and defeated the Beast almost 26 years ago.

There was shuffling behind us, and Dad and Dr. Sims appeared, stepping close. Dad’s disapproval died in his throat as he looked at the scene before him, while Dr. Sims’ looked reserved, like he was at a wake.

We stayed in an enraptured moment of silence for about two minutes before the spell finally broke over Brent, and he turned to Dad. “Did you have anything cool?” He asked. “Like a weapon or something?”

Dad scoffed, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “Yeah — I had a chain.”

I blinked. “That was it?”

“Got the job done, didn’t it?”

“We should go,” Dr. Sims interrupted. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer than we need to.”

Dad hit the stalling motor on the boat rather hard, hissing, “That’s fucking great,”

“Well,” Dr. Sims sighed. “We did tell the guy at the marina we’d take it as is. Guess we should have checked the fuel.”

It was probably the dingiest little thing at the docks, but it was supposed to be enough for the trip out to the swamps. Or, we thought it would have been. Dad and Dr. Sims bargained with some guy who looked surprised to even be spoken to, offered a few incentives for a three day use of the boat that involved Dr. Sims’ video powers and his Macbook that looked like it needed to be put down back in 2023. Brent and I didn’t ask exactly what this favor was. Probably was safer if we didn’t know.

But Dad, in his rush, offered to take it then and there, which led to us floating aimlessly in the middle of the wetland, accompanied by nothing but direct sunlight and screaming trees as the cicadas yelled their protests at our presence.

Brent was perched in the center of the dinghy, knees tucked to his chest. We’d finally found a downside to his steeled reinforcements; he was dense. Not mentally, though I was saving that joke for later — steel’s apparently three times heavier than bone, and his weight increased a good 40% when his muscles became laced with it. When Brent moved to step into the boat the first time at the docks, it lurched under his foot and threw me overboard. So he was situated in the direct center of the boat and told not to move. Not that he needed much incentive; he looked at the water with apprehension, probably thinking about the last time he was submerged.

And right now, that turned into a bit of panic. “So we’re stuck here?” Brent demanded, looking around.

“I could go,” Dr. Sims offered, “Buy some gas?”

“I mean,” I started, shrugging slightly, “I could sorta push us along? If I manipulate a current behind us, I should be able to—”

“No.”

Dad’s voice was low and stressed, like I’d just suggested stealing from the Pentagon. “Dad, it’s just a tide, it’s super eas—”

“I said no, Regina.” He looked down at me, glower in his eyes.

“It’s not a tidal wave!” I retorted. Dr. Sims looked away from Dad uncomfortably and I could see Brent roll his eyes, but I didn’t care. “It’s a current. It’s literally one of the easiest things I can do!”

Dad’s chest flexed when he inhaled, as if trying to make himself bigger. “No. You’re not in a position to be doing that right now.”

“You mean I’m too weak.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I mean, Dad could probably do it—” Brent tried to interject

“I can’t.” Dad responded simply. “Most I can do is shoot water off into the swamp.” He then turned his attention back to me. “Jean, you’re not doing this.”

“I’m not healing right now, but I can use my powers. You saw me on the bridge! It’s not gonna kill me.”

Dad’s eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to argue more when Dr. Sims interjected. “It isn’t a bad idea, Del.”

“Euge—”

“We’re out of gas, and besides, the more power she uses, the more proteins in her system. More of those means it might speed up her healing.” Dr. Sims continued, like Dad hadn’t even spoken. He looked at Dad and stressed, “It could be good for her.”

Dad stayed staring at his friend for a while before moving away from the stern of the boat, motioning me to it wordlessly.

I stomped past, uncaring about how it rocked the little dingy and Brent’s “Jean!” behind me as he tried to keep himself steady.

This was ridiculous! There was this fire in my chest as I summoned my water and began trying to manipulate the swamp; what was going on with Dad? He was acting like I couldn’t do anything right! If there was something I couldn’t mess up, it was piloting a goddamn boat.

That weird discomfort in my shoulder blades was back, a sort of soreness that I couldn’t really compare. It pulled as I did, manipulating the waters around the boat to gently push it forward.

The boat moved slowly, but hey, it moved. This was more than I’d done before, and Brent’s heavy ass wasn’t exactly helping — so it dragged lazily through the water, Dr. Sims directing turns every now and again as we traveled deeper into the swampland. “How long are we gonna be here?” Brent asks behind me.

“What, New Marais? Or this guy’s place?” Dad hummed.

“Both, I guess.”

Dad sighs. “Hopefully, not too long. This guy can give us some info on the tar, might have some connections, and then we’ll be out of here.”

“What is he? Some kinda scientist?”

Dad scoffed. “He’s not much,”

“He’s been there since the beginning,” Dr. Sims interrupts. “He was Cole MacGrath’s best friend.”

“Holy shit, the Cole MacGrath?” Brent asks, incredulous.

“He’s been doing a lot of underground pro-Conduit work since. It’s how your father and I met him,” Dr. Sims added.

Dad murmured off on the side, “Sure, if you call that fucking work,”

“D,” Dr. Sims chastised, sounding tired. I could only imagine the exacerbated look he was giving Dad.

“Let’s just hope he’s actually useful this time,” Dad says simply, voice curt. Dr. Sims sighed somewhere behind me.

There’s an awkward silence that even the cicadas’ screams couldn’t cut through, Brent cracking to ask, “So what kind of Conduit is he?”

“He’s not.” Dad replied flatly.

Dr. Sims tried his best to be more welcoming. “He helped MacGrath with a lot of stuff — built the amp, even — but he’s not a Conduit.”

“Oh,” Brent hummed. “And he decided out here was the best place to settle down?”

“It’s off the grid. No one’s gonna come out here willingly,” Dr. Sims explains. “He’s made as many enemies as we have over the years.”

“Let’s just see what he knows. The sooner we get outta here, the better,” Dad grumbled.

I hadn’t realized he was saying this because we were at our destination, ignorant to it all until Dr. Sims told me to veer left and a voice echoed over the ambiance of the swamp. “Well, long time no see, Eugene!”

I looked over my shoulder to see one of those swamp houses, a shabby little shack on stilts — only this one was modified to hell, with an extra floor and what looked like an old train car on the other side of a wide dock, where a portly older man stood. He was in a printed blue and white cuban shirt, the quiff of his slightly graying brown hair blowing in the breeze that shot between the mangroves. His eyes hid behind glasses but his face reminded me of those little rodent animals that always smiled, quokkas or something.

I pushed the boat to the dock, Dad throwing a rope up to tether it as Dr. Sims pulled himself out of the boat to greet the guy. The water slipped away from my arms, sank back into my skin, and I flinched when it settled; something about letting go of my control made the center of my shoulders twinge in pain, like I strained myself with a stretch.

Rolling my shoulders, I turned, catching how Dad was looking at me. “You okay?” He asked. He still looked a little miffed from earlier, but at least the concern was genuine.

But if I told him something was hurting after doing the exact thing he wanted me not to, I knew I’d never hear the end of it. He’d tighten his grip on me and I’d never be allowed to do anything like this again around him.

So I lied, saying, “Just tired.”

Dad nodded. “I know. Me too. We’ll talk to this guy, and then you both need to get some sleep.”

Brent was still in the center of the boat, unmoving. He couldn’t get out till we all did for fear of throwing us overboard. “You’re telling me,” he grumbled, staring off into space. He looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes seemed deeper than usual, and I had to wonder if it was because of his near-death experience.

Dad moved to grab a bag, stopping when he heard, “Nice to finally meet you, Delsin,”

We all turned to look at the guy who was standing on the dock with Dr. Sims, hands on his hips. “Kids,” Dad said instead of greeting the guy back, “This is Zeke Dunbar.”

Special shout out to my little boy, lovingly referred to as 'Delsin Layer' by friends, for coming up with the cool idea of how certain conduit powers could theoretically revive people! I've never met a more inquisitive and creative mind. He also really wants me to point out the steel when Brent's revived comes from the in-game healing animation (he was very serious about it staying in-canon). I may have given him too much control and he's now trying to direct more things in this story lol.

#infamous second son #infamous erosion #infamous #infamous 2 #delsin rowe #jean posting #brent posting #cole macgrath #Zeke Dunbar #Sucker Punch Productions #fine i didn't kill Brent but I WILL. THIS IS A WARNING *GAB*#fanfic

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rogueshadeaux · 5 months

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Chapter Twenty-Six — Crossfire

I could see a bit of the sky now from where I was, since we were on the edge of the bridge. I couldn’t really see the stars anymore, something I’d grown accustomed to in Chapman’s ruralness and reinforced by Salmon Bay. It was the dead of night, and I couldn’t wait to get off of the floor and sleep the rest of the way to wherever this guy lived, even if that’d only be another hour. But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

4.9k words | 16 min read time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence, Erosionverse-typical violence, guns, shooting, arguing, depression ? is that a tw?

It took three and a half days before we even crossed the border into Louisiana.

Brent, Dad, and Dr. Sims would rotate who would drive — Brent only allowed to do so at day — and when I begged for a chance, not only did Dad brush me off, but he wouldn’t even let me leave my spot in the back of the truck. Every pit stop, every leg stretch, every dine-in at some fast food place — Dad was there, closer than my own shadow, policing everything I could do in that moment.

I was about to fucking lose it.

I get that something was wrong with me. I understand that he’s seen me have a breakdown more than once in the past few days and was probably worried. But I wasn’t glass! He used to be big on independence, on letting us make our own mistakes and touting how he wanted us to live how we wanted, and just wanted to give advice when we wanted it. Now? I had no space, at all, and was seconds from going feral.

Brent could see it. He didn’t say much at all, not audibly, but he did at some point message me are you okay? and sighed when I shrugged. I laid the phone back on my lap and it stayed there for all of seventeen seconds before it pinged again and I flipped it, a screenshot in the messages.

Mei and Brent were still chatting away, Mei explaining how no one from the original group talked to Tommy much at all anymore. Even Cat stopped signing to her cousin. We’re all really worried about Jean, though…you’re sure she’s okay? We thought we saw her die in that footage of the seattle fight.

She’s fine, Brent promised, just a bit banged up.

Reese wants to talk to her. I mean we all do but Reese…well, you know her. She’s been at my house since new years and its been a challenge trying to get her to eat. Do you think Jean would want to reach out to her?

In the textbox was Brent’s message to me, a simple would you wanna? that he knew I’d see.

And I looked at him and shook my head, turning away to look back out of the window before he could convince me otherwise.

I couldn’t take the concerns or questions right now. I didn’t want to explain to them how something was wrong with me. And, God, how do I face them after what I did to Seattle? Why would they want to know someone like me, someone who could wipe them off of the face of the earth in an instant on some stupid mistake?

They were safer in Portland, with me in their past.

I was surprised by just how warm it got the farther south we went. Like, sure, I knew some people would rush to the south during winter to avoid the snow — but it was spring weather down here! Sixty, seventy degrees Fahrenheit! We didn’t get those sort of numbers in Chapman till May. I even threw off the woven blanket at some point, storing it on the floorboard simply because it felt too good to need the extra heat.

As we made a gas stop in Baton Rouge and everyone got out to stretch, Brent stripped off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, complaining. “God, it feels gross out here,”

Dad seemed to agree, and Dr. Sims was too far away to join in the conversation — but he also stripped off his coat as he walked towards the convenience store, slinging it over his shoulder.

Was it warm? Sure. But it didn’t warrant the forehead swipes or the gripes. “Maybe your steel insides have changed how you deal with temperature or something, because it feels amazing,” I said, hopping up from the tire so I could sit on the edge of the truck’s bed.

Brent looked at me like I was insane. “Are you serious? It’s so muggy,”

“That’s gotta be the marshes,” Dad hummed, rolling up his own sleeves.

“You’re both dramatic,” I teased. “I’d kill for Portland to feel like this,”

Brent’s bewilderment on his face grew as Dad regarded me for a moment before a half-smile broke on his face. “Do you feel the humidity?” he asked me.

“What humidity?”

He laughed, sliding the gas nozzle back into place. “That’s why you feel good — you’re probably in Conduit heaven. It’s humid right now, Jean. There’s so much water in the air it feels sticky,”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

Well, now that he mentioned it, that soreness between my shoulder blades I could never seem to shake was nearly gone, and my wounds weren’t all that itchy or in pain. I even felt confident enough to move around without the arm sling, my braced arm free to the elements. That’s what Dad concentrated on — my exposed arm with no support. “Jean, you should put your sling back on—”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I swore, hoping I’d be able to stop this in its tracks before it got bad. I hopped from my place on the truck and said, “I need to go to the bathroom,”

“Hold on, let me get—” Dad started, reaching into the truck for something.

“Dad.” I deadened. “I’m just going to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

I scurried off into the dark before he could protest more, desperate to catch fifteen seconds to myself.

We were so close to this special person that supposedly had all the answers. I couldn’t remember the guy’s name, I was always bad at that — but I did remember how Dr. Sims insisted he was important. He’s the closest we will ever get to talking to Cole MacGrath.

Cole MacGrath. The DUP had spent so much time painting him as a demon that even now you’ll find people that consider him a terrorist. They’d always point to the footage of him blowing up that section of Empire City and scream how he killed thousands. But there were stories from refugees from New Marais or people who snuck out of Empire City before it was decimated that touted him a hero. Footage from some old newscasters that snuck past the quarantine line to interview survivors of the explosion that happened in the city repeating the same: that he was a champion. Saving people, defeating rogue gangs that rose up in the aftermath of the explosion.

The other side would always scream back That he caused!

After the DUP fell and the government had to declassify a bunch of documents in their UN case, people were forced to acknowledge he actually wasn’t that bad a guy. How different was he from Dad? Not much. And that’s what I held on to initially; he was a guy trying to do the right thing. Even if he fucked up, he did more than others. Definitely more than the government did during the quarantine. Isn’t that enough?

I wonder how much guilt he carried to the end over everyone he couldn’t help.

Either way, he was the first recorded Conduit, apparently someone who’s seen tar like Augustine’s, and we’d have to go to the next best source to learn more since we couldn’t ask MacGrath without performing a séance. What kind of guy — normal guy, apparently — was a good enough replacement source for the Cole MacGrath?

There was a sudden knock on the door of the women’s restroom and both the woman walking towards a stall and the one washing her hands with me froze. We glanced at each other the way strangers in situations did; awkward, wordless side glances as we debated whether or not it was worth speaking up to talk to each other. Who knocks on a multi-stall restroom door?

Unfortunately, I knew exactly who.

“Jean?” Dad’s voice called from the other side. I felt like I was going to explode from embarrassment, my face in the mirror quickly turning red. “You in there?”

“Oh my God,” I whispered, thinking about going humid on the spot and never returning to my solid body. He could not be doing this and not see that it was absolutely humiliating! The other women definitely sensed my embarrassment, both turning to regard me as I mumbled some sort of apology, shook my hands out till the water from the sink seeped in, and gripped the handle of the door with white knuckles, barely able to take a deep breath before opening it.

Dad was there against the wall, barely allowing enough room for anyone to pass — and closing that space immediately when I stepped out. “Hey, there you are,” He greeted, like he wasn’t trying to infantilize me. “I told you to wait for m—”

“I can piss on my own, Dad.” I snipped, shoving myself into that small space between him and the wall and slipping past, briskly walking away.

Dad caught up with ease, falling in step beside me as the automatic doors to the gas station’s convenience store opened. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere alone right now,” he stressed, ignoring my bite. “You’re not…”

“I’m not what?” I demanded, spinning on him. “Capable? Competent? It’s the bathroom, Dad! I get that I fucked up and I’m broken now—”

“Jean, don’t curse—”

“—And that I can’t do anything right, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to treat me like a toddler! I’m not going to drown anyone while washing my hands.”

Something in Dad’s eyes changed. “That’s not what I meant—”

I didn’t want to hear it. Any excuse he would have given me would have just made it worse. I shot a hand up to stop his tangent, and demanded, “Don’t, Dad, just — how far’s New Marais?”

Dad’s eyebrows sewed closer together. He had that look, that expression he’d reserve for analyzing people on the stands. “It’s about an hour and a half away.”

“Let’s just go,” I said stiffly, walking off towards the truck. The sooner we got this over with, and the sooner we found a fix for whatever in me was fucked up, the sooner I’d get Dad off of my back.

Still, I put in my headphones and made sure my music was loud enough that everyone else in the car could hear its reverberation, just to make sure I didn’t have to deal with anything else along the way.

Brent got to drive us towards New Marais, and not only because he was Dad’s special little Conduit that wasn’t a walking hazard sign; in between choruses in my ears, I could hear Dad and Dr. Sims begin debating on whether or not we would be able to take back roads the rest of the way. “They don’t have cops that can do something about that?” Dad asked from the passengers’ seat.

Dr. Sims shrugged beside me. “There’s not enough of them. Too many older cops are retiring without any replacements, and those that do replace the old ones…well, there’s a big turnover rate. Criminals and wanna-bees have figured this out and—”

“And now they snipe drivers?” Dad scoffed, amazed that’s where their criminal minds went.

“Why am I driving, again?” Brent asked sheepishly.

“Because you’re the only one with built-in armor, and it frees Eugene and I up so we can protect you both. There’s really no other way?” Dad spun in place to ask Dr. Sims.

Dr. Sims shook his head. “Not until we cross the Lake Bonheur Causeway. It’ll take us into the city center and we can ride the backroads to the reclaimed swampland.”

“Man couldn’t live in a condo,” Dad grumbled, turning to face the front again.

I took out my headphones and put them away, the clack of their charge box catching Dad’s attention. “Jean, hey,” he started. “We’re—”

“I know,” I cut off. “I heard.”

Something simple changed in his eyes as he looked at me, but he didn’t mention it, instead continuing, “Okay, good. I’m going to need you to get on the floorboard.”

I blinked. “The—Dad—”

“You can’t be in view of any windows,” he cut me off with that aggravating finality in his voice, honed by years of law bullshit. “Eugene will be able to protect you if something happens, but you need to stay low.”

“Stay out of the way, you mean.” I grumbled.

Not low enough for Dad not to hear. “Stay safe. None of us are outrunning a bullet, but you’re the only one that’s not gonna recover.” The truck did that slight lurch as we went from asphalt to concrete, the start of this infamous Bonheur Causeway lit up in the night by the amber lights screwed to the suspensions above. I remember this bridge from one of Brent’s infodumps; it was one of the longest bridges over water in the country, no land for miles. Just concrete, steel, water, electric roadsigns — and four Conduits that could control them all.

Not that Dad wanted me to. “Jean.” He commanded, voice firm. “Down. Now.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes and undoing my seatbelt. “Better hope Brent doesn’t crash either,” I snipped.

“Hey—” Brent started. I didn’t get to hear much else, I was already trying to fit myself in the small space between my seat and Brent’s.

This was humiliating. I was stored away on the bottom of the truck’s floor like some wine cooler they didn’t want the cops seeing, and I was, what, supposed to just be okay with it? I was shoved next to the plastic bag that held our trash — and right now, felt no better than it.

The cab of Dad’s truck flashed amber as we passed under lamplights, and Dad rolled down the windows of the truck, letting in this damp and dank smell that was part salt and part rotting egg. The smell definitely was enough to get a reaction from Brent. “Eugh, Dad—” he began to complain.

“Shh.” Dad commanded immediately.

I could see Dr. Sims from my spot on the floor — he was really the only thing I could see. He leaned over ever so slightly so he could look past the front seats and out of the windshield to the bridge, eyes scanning from behind the glare of his glasses. His one hand crept to the middle seat, closest to my head, and tensed, like he was preparing to call those angels up any minute now.

I couldn’t remember how long the bridge was; I was sure if I asked Brent, he’d be able to rattle off a number down to the centimeters, but I didn’t dare break the silence of the truck’s cab. Not even as my legs began to cramp from how I was crouched and the bridge gained some light from more variable-message signs appearing, directing the flow of traffic to different parts of New Marais. “Merge left,” Dad simply said, the click of the turn signal coming on almost immediately.

“We’re almost off the bridge.” Dr. Sims muttered above me. I didn’t realize he meant it to be a reassurance until his eyes flashed down to look at me.

Good. The sooner I could get out of this uncomfortable crouch, the better.

But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

The truck hit another crack in the bridge, rocking around a bit with the force. The things in the back bounced around a bit, the ice in Dad’s cup rattled — and, under it all, something clicked. Dr. Sims heard the noise too as it rang around very slightly outside of the windows, warning, “Del—”

He was cut off by the back windshield suddenly shattering, a bullet flying through the space between Dad and Brent and impaling the radio, sending sparks and glass flying around. I shielded my head as glass rained down on me, poking away at my arms as Brent yelled, “Dad!”

“Just keep driving!” He demanded, unclipping his seatbelt. The window began to roll down as he added. “Steel on, now!”

Dr. Sims’ arms lit up and he spun in place, looking through the shattered window and out to the bridge. “D, we’re being followed!” He warned.

There was sudden tire screeching, and Brent cursed under his breath before the truck jerked right. “Dad!” He shouted, more urgent this time.

“Keep going, get off the bridge!”

“Where are you going?”

I could barely see the bottom of Dad’s feet from where I was as he pulled himself up onto the roof of the truck through the window. It creaked a bit under his weight, a resounding thunk that barely covered up the sound of a handgun cocking. I could feel the vibration from Brent’s hit as he smacked his driver’s side door, the plastic of the cab’s interior being overtaken by rapidly-growing steel, the encasing just finishing its growth as it became dented from bullets. Dr. Sims had a hand out of the gap the shattered windshield left, the blue around his wrists spinning like Doctor Strange gauntlets before pulsing bright and shooting off actual swords towards whoever was behind us.

I was thrown over onto Dr. Sims’ feet as whoever was on the right of us slammed into the truck in an effort to make it spin out, Brent’s overcorrection throwing me back just as quickly. I went from being on my knees, to my face, to my ass — all in perfect time to see Dad’s form as he fell from on top of the roof.

“Delsin!” Dr. Sims yelled out.

Dr. Sims was too distracted; he watched what I assumed had to be Dad’s body as it hit the pavement, concentrating more on that than whoever was behind us now returning fire. He was hit in his right arm, in that meat just below the elbow, the bullet tearing through him entirely and lodging into the back of the passenger side seat. Dr. Sims choked out a couple choice curse words, gripping his arm close and slouching down out of the view of the back windshield.

“Does anyone see Dad?” Brent demanded from up front before cursing again. The truck jerked around once more as he avoided something — or someone. “Jean, do you see him?”

I shook my head like Brent could see me, panic beginning to settle in my chest as I looked at the bit of sky the broken windshield allowed me to. Where was he? Dr. Sims looked all but useless; his face was going gray as he looked at the wound, and he made no move to sit back up and keep fighting. Could he even do it with an injury like that? There were pieces of tissue hanging out of the hole in his rolled-up sleeve. There was another bullet that blasted past and narrowly missed Brent’s head, taking out the front windshield instead.

I couldn’t stay here and just wait to see who’d recover or die first. I couldn’t stay on this dirty and glass-covered floorboard waiting to see what happened to Dad. I had to do something.

There was a stint I went through in Sophomore year, where action movies were my everything. I had just gotten into the idea of comic writing, and wanted something thrilling. Something exciting, something that’d catch an audience’s attention enough that they’d ditch the Valentine Crime Noirs and maybe I could bring an interest back to the storytelling form. Dad was all for it; it gave him the chance to introduce me to some of his favorite movies, and while some of them absolutely sucked, there was one that I adored watching with him again and again: John Wick. This guy had reached his limit after everything was taken from him, and God, the fight scenes — they were something else entirely. Not just action packed and exhilarating, but accurate.

It was there that I learned a bullet is useless in water so long as you’ve got a few feet between yourself and the gun. That’s all I needed to give us — a few feet of water.

I pushed up from the floorboard and laid my hand on the seat, a nice shard of glass immediately introducing itself into my palm through the space in my cast. I didn’t let that stop me, nor when Dr. Sims seemed to try to make some sound of objection through his sharp gasps; I flitted through the shattered window on my own wave of water, landing atop someone’s bag and nearly tripping as I resolidified.

There were two trucks, one directly beside us and swerving to try and push us into the guardrail of the bridge, another behind with at least four masked people in them. All armed.

No Dad. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Jean, what the fuck are you doing?” Brent yelled from the truck.

I steadied myself and rose, trying my best to look at the hood of the car behind us without worrying about the fact that everyone in it looked ready to mow me down with their weapons if given the chance. I definitely was giving them plenty. Water pushed down from my shoulders and began to swirl around my forearms as I let that tenseness push into my chest, a hold binding my ribs closer and closer until I pushed out and the pressure burst away with it.

A halo of water expanded quickly, this giant forcefield of wet that washed over me and everything else in the back of the truck, pushing over its roof and all the way to the front and farther still. I extended my arms from in front of me to beside me, holding them as steady as I could as I built more into the bubbling shield, trying to pile on enough to make it an actual wall and not just a barrier.

It felt…different, this time. Something about pushing around this much water…it didn’t feel like it used to. There was more strain to it, an ache in my shoulders even though I knew, without a doubt, I didn’t need to drain. The truck on our left inched closer still, tried to push past that barrier I was making and force its way into my little bubble, and a hole opened up in the siding Brent had built so he could stick his hand our and shoot a volley of steel spheres, the metal rusting the moment they hit my water and exploding upon impact with the highway robbers’ car. The windows shattered with the hit, causing the truck to swerve away with a squeal of the tires.

Even with the swirls of the swell I tried to keep the water clear enough to see through. I wasn’t exactly wanting Brent to drive the truck straight into a median barrier, after all. But it left things clear enough for me to see the muzzle of an assault rifle settle on the center console of the truck behind us. I was suddenly back in that alley somehow, a gun pointed at my forehead, at my family, the threat that tore so much apart in the blink of an eye.

I was not going to be the damsel in distress this time.

I moved my right hand in front of me, pushing more water into the barrier between us and the truck following close behind just as their gun let off a volley of bullets, shattering the windscreen on the front of their truck and sending a good dozen bullets straight for me.

The first three managed to make it through the water, each narrowly missing me — one even snagged the flannel I had tied around my waist, shredding a hole through the fabric. But as the water caught up with my intentions and became denser, the other bullets stuttered to a stop in their shots, wavering in the water before slowly falling away and onto the road.

There was a sudden shift in the shadows, a flash in the darkness between street lamps, and Dad was on the roof of their truck, smoke dissipating from his form. He gripped the barrel of the gun sticking out of the truck and pushed some sort of heat into it from his blackened hand, the barrel going red-hot before he bent it to a ninety degree angle. The people in the truck reacted to his presence, shouting, one lifting another gun, but it didn’t stop Dad; he turned back into a plume of smoke and darted into the truck from its shattered windscreen.

I could only describe what happened next as a movie scene; Dad disappeared and reappeared again and again, choking out someone in the backseat as a cloud of smoke, solidifying to kick the other one in the side of the jaw. He was gone again and suddenly in the front, elbowing the person in the passenger’s seat before grabbing the steering wheel and trying to fight it away from the driver.

The driver gave him a hard time, managing to land a headbutt that sent Dad reeling back and prompted him to turn to smoke. The embers and ash rushed out of a window and to the top of the vehicle, resettling as Dad on the roof again.

The smoke didn’t dissipate from him; it stayed close, swirling around him like a twister, pulling in as he stayed crouched, the ash around his arm turning bright red as it shifted to literal fire. Could he control fire?

The guys on our left swerved suddenly, and pushed into the side of Dad’s truck, throwing me off balance — and making the water shield around us disappear. I had to drop fast in order to not be thrown out of the car, something roughly popping in my side and making me cry out in pain.

“Jean, get back in the truck!” Brent demanded somewhere behind me. The guys beside us had their own guns, and an entire clip was emptied just over my head. I ducked low, covering my head with my arms, barely able to see Dad through the gaps between them.

He jumped, a plume of ash and red-hot embers as he shot to the sky like rockets, all burning fuel and smog. He was nearly touching the peak of the bridge’s suspension arch when he formed from the ash, suspended in midair for only a moment before turning in the sky, aiming for the truck behind us, and shooting down like a missile, heat on the tail of his form.

There was this brief half-second of calm that came in the pause of the guy in the truck beside us reloading his gun that gave me the chance to turn into a small wave and flit back into the truck, landing on the cushion of the back seat — and sorta on Dr. Sims’ leg. “Shit, sorry,” I apologized immediately.

He didn’t care, he wasn’t even paying attention; he was looking out of the back window at Dad’s form as it zeroed in on the hood of the trunk behind us, yelling, “Hold on to something!” before blue light took over his arms.

I couldn’t really keep track of what happened next.

Dad slammed into the hood of the truck behind us, his body sinking away into smoke and ash the moment it touched the gloss of the truck. Smoke coupled and pushed out as the truck’s front pushed down into the street under it, axel snapping away. Then there was blue, a wall of hard light as that smoke billowed outward in all directions, a blast force behind it.

The back of the truck lifted, the smoke hitting the near-opaque wall and pushing around it. Unfortunately, this also pushed the truck around, and before I knew it, I was thrown into the door as it flipped on its side, the steel on it barely doing anything to cushion me. My vision blacked out and I wasn’t sure if that was from the smoke, the rolling, or simply from me.

The truck skidded some ways before it stopped, Dr. Sims only kept from landing on me by the seat belt around his body. There was no sound outside of the truck. All I could see past the window was the remains of smoke as it dissipated in the air, and smelt nothing but burnt rubber and fumes. I let my head settle, sucking in a shaken breath and coughing out the exhale, lungs screaming for air that didn’t burn. Brent was visible from where I was, head leaned against the steel wall at his side, unmoving and unsteeled. “Brent?” I coughed.

He didn’t move.

#infamous second son #infamous erosion #delsin rowe #brent posting #jean posting #infamous 2 #infamous #cole macgrath #Eugene Sims #I FINALLY GOT TO WRITE AN ULT THIS WAS SO FUN BRO #fanfic #sucker punch productions #hey wanna watch me get hunted for sport when my friends reach the cliffhanger?#god I love putting guys in situations

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