The Kids Call it Karma ((Story))
The Kids Call it Karma
Rating: R for the entirely gratuitous second paragraph.
The morning of the trial dawned dark and blustery. Wet gusting winds from the southeast almost certainly promised rain off the Atlantic by lunchtime. Rain Wolfe opened his eyes to a grey sky and a hint of a roll of distant thunder. It was a morning to curl up together and sleep in, but not this time. He snuggled closer to Dylan and tried not to tell himself he was maybe doing it while he still could. Dee's eyes flickered open at the touch and blinked lazily.
Sometimes Dylan's eyes were crystalline like green jewels, or cold like old glaciers. Now with the pale morning light slanting across the room they were liquid pools of absinthe, and needy. Rain knew what he needed. He knew all the complexities of his partner's moods, all the scars he'd accumulated and how to sooth them when they ached. He kissed Dee's cheek gently, kissed down to his chin and his throat, then slipped an arm across his broad cool back and moved over him. Dylan sighed, arched and shifted to make room for him.
Shower, breakfast and a taxi ride later they arrived at the Hero Corps HQ in Steel Canyon. Dylan wore tidy chinos with a dress shirt a jacket and borrowed tie that Rain had tied for him and that he kept tugging at. Rain wore his black working costume. He wanted the court to remember what they owed him.
Dylan's statements had already been read into evidence. This was going to be more a hearing then a trial. In the gallery Rain displaced a Longbow officer with a curt "bugger off" and took a spot behind the bench where Dee and his defense advisor were seated. All rose as the most of the Freedom Phalanx and a smattering of the Vindicators entered, Statesman setting a hieratic pace as they filed in. The Phalanx leader took the centre seat, snapped a paper file folder on the counter and fussily twitched the cover open.
Rain scanned the room quickly as they sat. No press thank goodness. Just dignitaries and functionaries in various uniforms or costumes. He did a quick double take. Yes, that was Proletarian in the back corner trying to look inconspicuous and too big to very effective at it. How did he find out?
"This committee's first witness." Statesman began "Is an undercover officer. As such his statement has been entered and reviewed in camera to preserve his anonymity. The committee is-" A slight pause. "Satisfied with his cooperation." Statesman's face telegraphed that whatever was in that deposition, it wasn't anything he'd been fishing for.
Flux, Rain thought. Had to be. His anonymity was a joke but the Phalanx probably didn't know that. He would have told them whatever his Outcast handlers maneuvered him into saying, which is to say not much.
The next witness was an systems engineer in the employ of the Ziggursky Penitentiary. Not trusting to his memory, Statesman read his questions from a series of printed notes.
"You lifted fingerprints off the wall sconce in Tom Frost's cell?"
"Yes sir. A hand print. Left hand to be precise."
"And it matched Mr Hanlon's?"
"Yes sir it did."
"Is the damage to the light consistent with tampering?"
"No sir."
Statesman looked up, paused, then glanced back at his notes as if the witness had diverged from his expected script.
"Your preliminary report indicates otherwise."
The technician took a sip of water. "Yes sir. But once Hero Corps delivered Mr. Hanlon's medical files we realised that his thermal output was well beyond the rated operating maximum for both the fixture and the listening device. Given that the cell was not nullified, an accidental discharge would have easily caused the damage described by the engineer's report. For that reason we cannot confirm deliberate tampering."
"Defense?"
"Sir." Dylan's advisor stood. Was it Rain's imagination or had Dee's shoulders just tensed a bit? "Mr Hanlon admits he visited Prisoner Frost to discuss his options for rehabilitation. The prisoner was not interested in help and shoved him into the wall. He regrets the damage to state property."
"Very well." Statesman cleared his throat with a rumble. "Dismissed. Call the next witness please."
Six Years Ago
Doctor Laurence Mansfield was a physician first. When the Code Blue alarm rang on a wet Saturday night he left his autopsy reports and jogged down the hallway toward Emergency in time to hear the nurse calling for security and a stretcher.
"John Doe head trauma, Doctor." The nurse waved him toward the treatment cubicle. She whispered "Police are on the way."
As a coroner, Mansfield used to quip that the people he dealt with were seldom very lively. As he examined the unconscious man's wounds he saw ruefully that this case wasn't going to change that trend. Not for long anyway. The open wound meant no haematoma but it wouldn't help much to reduce the subdural swelling and there were almost certainly shards of bone in the man's brain. Behind him he heard the duty physician enter and made room for her.
"Nurse, who brought him in?" She pointed out toward the waiting room.
The young man, kid really, was folded like a skinny blue mantis into one of the chairs under the watchful eye of hospital security. He was seventeen maybe, all knees and elbows and gangly sprouting limbs. Shaved head, icey complexion, a nasty contusion that was turning one side of his face plum purple. Chiron Medical's proximity to Eastgate brought in a lot of these guy's victims but not many of /them/. Mansfield had sometimes wondered why. He impatiently waved the guard away.
"What happened son?"
The kid looked up and sniffled. "Matchbox. He wandered too close to the dam. Trolls beat him up. I tried to help but there were too many. I dragged him away from them." He took a deep sobbing breath. "I'm not supposed to be here. It's against the rules. But Match..." He gulped down another sob.
Mansfield touched the boy's face to examine the wicked wound that was trickling blood down one cheek. He jerked his chin and pushed the doctor's hand away. "Just rocks. Threw them after us. It's ok Doc." He sniffled. "I don't hurt easy."
Mansfield lowered his hand and looked at the youth with wise sad eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling that the kid was referring to more then a bruised face. He tried to imagine this adolescent carrying an unconscious man a mile in the rain to get him here.
The boy looked up at him. "Is Matchbox going to be ok?"
"He's very badly hurt son." The boy gulped and nodded and Mansfield knew he'd seen through the euphemism.
"Can I stay with him? Please? He has no family. No one to be with him when..." The kid's voice broke.
Mansfield knew the hospital policy. Screw the hospital policy. He took the boy's shoulder and led him through to the ward.
By the door the duty physician took him by the shoulder and spoke in a low voice. "Laurence this is completely irregular."
"Doris" he asked patiently "Would it satisfy regulations to leave that man to die alone?" Her eyes softened. She sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "I'll tell the duty nurse."
He took one last look through the window of the wardroom before he went off shift. He saw a frightened, dirty young man with tears tracing furrows down his bloody face. He held the dieing man's hand and bent to kiss his cheek.
"Doctor Mansfield, your lab analysed the medical samples provided by Mr. Hanlon?" In the gallery Rain shifted slightly. Count on Statesman to be too repressed to say "urine" in front of an audience.
"Yes sir. Two samples and a control."
"And they tested positive for superadine?"
"Yes sir."
Statesman sat up a bit stiffer. This one was going his way. "So the samples are consistent with routine drug abuse?"
"No sir." The doctor shook his head. Statesman pursed his lips and tapped the counter top with something like open frustration.
"Explain."
"When introduced directly into the bloodsteam, superadine leaves a distinct pattern of enzyme markers as it's metabolised. Those enzymes are missing from the provided samples. Our test results are consistent with second-hand exposure."
Synapse broke in. "So he's been fighting in smokey rooms?"
"Very smokey rooms, given the concentration, but yes sir." He beamed over at Dylan. That gawky boy had filled out so well. "It makes me feel safe knowing that there are young people taking such terrible risks on my account."
Rain checked his watch. The medical expert was followed by a Longbow Warburg analyst with some fuzzy surveillance photos and an emotional and slightly incoherent appeal by a pro-bono paralegal representing the family of some dead kid in Skyway City who figured it was all Mr. Hanlon's fault, whatever "it" was. Even Statesman's face was propped up on one elbow when he finally announced the committee's adjournment for deliberations.
Three Years Ago
It was a Tuesday in Aerie Plaza and it was going to be a slow evening. Synapse returned from dinner at a local diner to find his protege Rainbow Avenger waiting at the base of his watch station looking expectant and nervous. As much as this looked like a business call, Synapse still smiled into his decaf. Rain was a sweet kid.
"I'm sorry I came here like this." He braced himself. "I need a favour Steve. A big one."
Synapse walked down to the base of the watchpost and waved Rain to follow him down into the nook between the shadowed walls. "I've never known you to ask for something you didn't really need. What's wrong?"
Rain had tripped over the story. "He" was on the run and out of options. He was frightened, he was so strong. He had tried to do the right thing, he had so much to give. He just needed a chance. Rain had promised. He'd /promised/. He had made some mistakes, yeah but Rain knew that he had the right stuff his heart was in the right place he couldn't go back they'd kill him. Synapse had slowed Rain down and told him he was babbling.
So Rain had waved "him" over from where he had been hiding on the street side of the wall of the little parkette. Synapse had been aghast at this big broad-shouldered skinhead in gang colours. He had stood before the hero with a rough and pagan pride, like a captured Gaulish chieftain paraded before Caesar and refusing to bow before his conqueror.
He had looked up into the young man's eyes (my, he was a big one) and saw a roiling brew of emotions - suspicion, fear, anger and defiance all wrestling with curiosity and faint hope - but under it all, pain and a deep aching world weariness. Without turning his head he glanced over at Rain and saw something like adoration and supplication as his gaze flickered between them. Synapse sighed. Time to cross another name out of his little black book. He laid one hand on a dirty shoulder (the bigger man flinched like a beaten dog at the touch). "Ok. Let's do this. Come with me."
"YOU! Sponsored. This..." Statesman sputtered in helpless purple-faced apoplexy. "...Hopped up gangbanger to Hero Corps because he was SCREWING one of your CATAMITES!?"
"I am a member of the Freedom Phalanx!" Synapse shouted back, laying heavy emphasis on the personal article. He stabbed a finger at Statesman. "I made an executive decision. It's MY right! I thought he was a good risk and his record proves I was right!"
"We do NOT accept criminals!" Statesman roared.
Synapse rose half out of his seat. "And maybe /that/ needs to change too! You're the one always going on about morale and manpower. Why do we turn away qualified people because of juvenile screwups? So the gangs can recruit them?"
Statesman pounded the desk. "The interest of Hero Corps..."
A third voice cut in. "...is served by politically motivated appointments of Arachnos agents?"
The Phalanx members gasped. Every pair of eyes turned to Manticore. He leaned forward a bit stiffly and laid a pair of bandaged hands on the tabletop.
"You deliver a good speech to the court Marcus..." deliberately using his commander's personal name. "...but you offered immunity and a Corps license to Tom Frost in return for evidence against Hanlon. Why? I'd really like to know why you want to bring him down that bad."
"Marcus is this true?" Psyche asked.
Blue Steel scowled. "You expected us to take this... villian's statement at face value?"
Ms Liberty protested "I'm sure he was doing the right thing under the circumstances! Grandfather, tell them!"
"Marcus." Positron's voice as always was measured and calm. "I realise you're trying to keep the Corps strong and I support that effort, but I've seen nothing presented here but rumours, circumstantial evidence and a crude attempt to back up weak evidence with the still weaker statement of some jailhouse stooge."
"Raymond, et tu?" Statesman flopped back into his seat.
Positron held out his hands in a soothing gesture. "Marcus is it possible you're allowing your feelings to affect your judgement? I know - we all know - how you feel about street crime."
"You're damned right you know it!" Statesman growled. "He's common trash. Trash belongs in the gutter."
"Trash like me?" All eyes turned to the deep booming voice . Back Alley Brawler had a reputation for silence at these deliberations. He stood slowly from his position at the end of the table where he always sat because of his size. "My father was a gang enforcer. I came from those gutters. How many generations is it 'til I'm not trash anymore?"
"Michael, I didn't mean..."
"Save it Marcus. I've heard enough. Let's call a vote."
Rating: R for the entirely gratuitous second paragraph.
The morning of the trial dawned dark and blustery. Wet gusting winds from the southeast almost certainly promised rain off the Atlantic by lunchtime. Rain Wolfe opened his eyes to a grey sky and a hint of a roll of distant thunder. It was a morning to curl up together and sleep in, but not this time. He snuggled closer to Dylan and tried not to tell himself he was maybe doing it while he still could. Dee's eyes flickered open at the touch and blinked lazily.
Sometimes Dylan's eyes were crystalline like green jewels, or cold like old glaciers. Now with the pale morning light slanting across the room they were liquid pools of absinthe, and needy. Rain knew what he needed. He knew all the complexities of his partner's moods, all the scars he'd accumulated and how to sooth them when they ached. He kissed Dee's cheek gently, kissed down to his chin and his throat, then slipped an arm across his broad cool back and moved over him. Dylan sighed, arched and shifted to make room for him.
Shower, breakfast and a taxi ride later they arrived at the Hero Corps HQ in Steel Canyon. Dylan wore tidy chinos with a dress shirt a jacket and borrowed tie that Rain had tied for him and that he kept tugging at. Rain wore his black working costume. He wanted the court to remember what they owed him.
Dylan's statements had already been read into evidence. This was going to be more a hearing then a trial. In the gallery Rain displaced a Longbow officer with a curt "bugger off" and took a spot behind the bench where Dee and his defense advisor were seated. All rose as the most of the Freedom Phalanx and a smattering of the Vindicators entered, Statesman setting a hieratic pace as they filed in. The Phalanx leader took the centre seat, snapped a paper file folder on the counter and fussily twitched the cover open.
Rain scanned the room quickly as they sat. No press thank goodness. Just dignitaries and functionaries in various uniforms or costumes. He did a quick double take. Yes, that was Proletarian in the back corner trying to look inconspicuous and too big to very effective at it. How did he find out?
"This committee's first witness." Statesman began "Is an undercover officer. As such his statement has been entered and reviewed in camera to preserve his anonymity. The committee is-" A slight pause. "Satisfied with his cooperation." Statesman's face telegraphed that whatever was in that deposition, it wasn't anything he'd been fishing for.
Flux, Rain thought. Had to be. His anonymity was a joke but the Phalanx probably didn't know that. He would have told them whatever his Outcast handlers maneuvered him into saying, which is to say not much.
The next witness was an systems engineer in the employ of the Ziggursky Penitentiary. Not trusting to his memory, Statesman read his questions from a series of printed notes.
"You lifted fingerprints off the wall sconce in Tom Frost's cell?"
"Yes sir. A hand print. Left hand to be precise."
"And it matched Mr Hanlon's?"
"Yes sir it did."
"Is the damage to the light consistent with tampering?"
"No sir."
Statesman looked up, paused, then glanced back at his notes as if the witness had diverged from his expected script.
"Your preliminary report indicates otherwise."
The technician took a sip of water. "Yes sir. But once Hero Corps delivered Mr. Hanlon's medical files we realised that his thermal output was well beyond the rated operating maximum for both the fixture and the listening device. Given that the cell was not nullified, an accidental discharge would have easily caused the damage described by the engineer's report. For that reason we cannot confirm deliberate tampering."
"Defense?"
"Sir." Dylan's advisor stood. Was it Rain's imagination or had Dee's shoulders just tensed a bit? "Mr Hanlon admits he visited Prisoner Frost to discuss his options for rehabilitation. The prisoner was not interested in help and shoved him into the wall. He regrets the damage to state property."
"Very well." Statesman cleared his throat with a rumble. "Dismissed. Call the next witness please."
Six Years Ago
Doctor Laurence Mansfield was a physician first. When the Code Blue alarm rang on a wet Saturday night he left his autopsy reports and jogged down the hallway toward Emergency in time to hear the nurse calling for security and a stretcher.
"John Doe head trauma, Doctor." The nurse waved him toward the treatment cubicle. She whispered "Police are on the way."
As a coroner, Mansfield used to quip that the people he dealt with were seldom very lively. As he examined the unconscious man's wounds he saw ruefully that this case wasn't going to change that trend. Not for long anyway. The open wound meant no haematoma but it wouldn't help much to reduce the subdural swelling and there were almost certainly shards of bone in the man's brain. Behind him he heard the duty physician enter and made room for her.
"Nurse, who brought him in?" She pointed out toward the waiting room.
The young man, kid really, was folded like a skinny blue mantis into one of the chairs under the watchful eye of hospital security. He was seventeen maybe, all knees and elbows and gangly sprouting limbs. Shaved head, icey complexion, a nasty contusion that was turning one side of his face plum purple. Chiron Medical's proximity to Eastgate brought in a lot of these guy's victims but not many of /them/. Mansfield had sometimes wondered why. He impatiently waved the guard away.
"What happened son?"
The kid looked up and sniffled. "Matchbox. He wandered too close to the dam. Trolls beat him up. I tried to help but there were too many. I dragged him away from them." He took a deep sobbing breath. "I'm not supposed to be here. It's against the rules. But Match..." He gulped down another sob.
Mansfield touched the boy's face to examine the wicked wound that was trickling blood down one cheek. He jerked his chin and pushed the doctor's hand away. "Just rocks. Threw them after us. It's ok Doc." He sniffled. "I don't hurt easy."
Mansfield lowered his hand and looked at the youth with wise sad eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling that the kid was referring to more then a bruised face. He tried to imagine this adolescent carrying an unconscious man a mile in the rain to get him here.
The boy looked up at him. "Is Matchbox going to be ok?"
"He's very badly hurt son." The boy gulped and nodded and Mansfield knew he'd seen through the euphemism.
"Can I stay with him? Please? He has no family. No one to be with him when..." The kid's voice broke.
Mansfield knew the hospital policy. Screw the hospital policy. He took the boy's shoulder and led him through to the ward.
By the door the duty physician took him by the shoulder and spoke in a low voice. "Laurence this is completely irregular."
"Doris" he asked patiently "Would it satisfy regulations to leave that man to die alone?" Her eyes softened. She sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "I'll tell the duty nurse."
He took one last look through the window of the wardroom before he went off shift. He saw a frightened, dirty young man with tears tracing furrows down his bloody face. He held the dieing man's hand and bent to kiss his cheek.
"Doctor Mansfield, your lab analysed the medical samples provided by Mr. Hanlon?" In the gallery Rain shifted slightly. Count on Statesman to be too repressed to say "urine" in front of an audience.
"Yes sir. Two samples and a control."
"And they tested positive for superadine?"
"Yes sir."
Statesman sat up a bit stiffer. This one was going his way. "So the samples are consistent with routine drug abuse?"
"No sir." The doctor shook his head. Statesman pursed his lips and tapped the counter top with something like open frustration.
"Explain."
"When introduced directly into the bloodsteam, superadine leaves a distinct pattern of enzyme markers as it's metabolised. Those enzymes are missing from the provided samples. Our test results are consistent with second-hand exposure."
Synapse broke in. "So he's been fighting in smokey rooms?"
"Very smokey rooms, given the concentration, but yes sir." He beamed over at Dylan. That gawky boy had filled out so well. "It makes me feel safe knowing that there are young people taking such terrible risks on my account."
Rain checked his watch. The medical expert was followed by a Longbow Warburg analyst with some fuzzy surveillance photos and an emotional and slightly incoherent appeal by a pro-bono paralegal representing the family of some dead kid in Skyway City who figured it was all Mr. Hanlon's fault, whatever "it" was. Even Statesman's face was propped up on one elbow when he finally announced the committee's adjournment for deliberations.
Three Years Ago
It was a Tuesday in Aerie Plaza and it was going to be a slow evening. Synapse returned from dinner at a local diner to find his protege Rainbow Avenger waiting at the base of his watch station looking expectant and nervous. As much as this looked like a business call, Synapse still smiled into his decaf. Rain was a sweet kid.
"I'm sorry I came here like this." He braced himself. "I need a favour Steve. A big one."
Synapse walked down to the base of the watchpost and waved Rain to follow him down into the nook between the shadowed walls. "I've never known you to ask for something you didn't really need. What's wrong?"
Rain had tripped over the story. "He" was on the run and out of options. He was frightened, he was so strong. He had tried to do the right thing, he had so much to give. He just needed a chance. Rain had promised. He'd /promised/. He had made some mistakes, yeah but Rain knew that he had the right stuff his heart was in the right place he couldn't go back they'd kill him. Synapse had slowed Rain down and told him he was babbling.
So Rain had waved "him" over from where he had been hiding on the street side of the wall of the little parkette. Synapse had been aghast at this big broad-shouldered skinhead in gang colours. He had stood before the hero with a rough and pagan pride, like a captured Gaulish chieftain paraded before Caesar and refusing to bow before his conqueror.
He had looked up into the young man's eyes (my, he was a big one) and saw a roiling brew of emotions - suspicion, fear, anger and defiance all wrestling with curiosity and faint hope - but under it all, pain and a deep aching world weariness. Without turning his head he glanced over at Rain and saw something like adoration and supplication as his gaze flickered between them. Synapse sighed. Time to cross another name out of his little black book. He laid one hand on a dirty shoulder (the bigger man flinched like a beaten dog at the touch). "Ok. Let's do this. Come with me."
"YOU! Sponsored. This..." Statesman sputtered in helpless purple-faced apoplexy. "...Hopped up gangbanger to Hero Corps because he was SCREWING one of your CATAMITES!?"
"I am a member of the Freedom Phalanx!" Synapse shouted back, laying heavy emphasis on the personal article. He stabbed a finger at Statesman. "I made an executive decision. It's MY right! I thought he was a good risk and his record proves I was right!"
"We do NOT accept criminals!" Statesman roared.
Synapse rose half out of his seat. "And maybe /that/ needs to change too! You're the one always going on about morale and manpower. Why do we turn away qualified people because of juvenile screwups? So the gangs can recruit them?"
Statesman pounded the desk. "The interest of Hero Corps..."
A third voice cut in. "...is served by politically motivated appointments of Arachnos agents?"
The Phalanx members gasped. Every pair of eyes turned to Manticore. He leaned forward a bit stiffly and laid a pair of bandaged hands on the tabletop.
"You deliver a good speech to the court Marcus..." deliberately using his commander's personal name. "...but you offered immunity and a Corps license to Tom Frost in return for evidence against Hanlon. Why? I'd really like to know why you want to bring him down that bad."
"Marcus is this true?" Psyche asked.
Blue Steel scowled. "You expected us to take this... villian's statement at face value?"
Ms Liberty protested "I'm sure he was doing the right thing under the circumstances! Grandfather, tell them!"
"Marcus." Positron's voice as always was measured and calm. "I realise you're trying to keep the Corps strong and I support that effort, but I've seen nothing presented here but rumours, circumstantial evidence and a crude attempt to back up weak evidence with the still weaker statement of some jailhouse stooge."
"Raymond, et tu?" Statesman flopped back into his seat.
Positron held out his hands in a soothing gesture. "Marcus is it possible you're allowing your feelings to affect your judgement? I know - we all know - how you feel about street crime."
"You're damned right you know it!" Statesman growled. "He's common trash. Trash belongs in the gutter."
"Trash like me?" All eyes turned to the deep booming voice . Back Alley Brawler had a reputation for silence at these deliberations. He stood slowly from his position at the end of the table where he always sat because of his size. "My father was a gang enforcer. I came from those gutters. How many generations is it 'til I'm not trash anymore?"
"Michael, I didn't mean..."
"Save it Marcus. I've heard enough. Let's call a vote."