The next few days...were not good.
Actually, it's more apt to say they were much, much worse.
Today in particular proved to be rather hazardous, as Howard would experience. It all began with the sharp knocking at his door. Up until this point, Howard had been sitting in his armchair, Bernie acting as his footstool, as he tried to finish his morning word search in the newspaper. All of his major electronics had been turned off, and he had sent an email to all of his clients that he would be unavailable for a few weeks. He had been doing his best to detach himself from what was coming, but it came all the same. He tried to ignore it, pretending he didn't hear. The banging continued, becoming more desperate, and Howard finally got up and made his way for the door. For perhaps the first time since Howard had started living in the building, he had locked the door, and he stumbled a couple of minutes with the lock. When the door finally opened, it revealed a fidgety mess of a man with wild hair and even wilder eyes. He hadn't slept for a few days, by Howard's guess, and he had his hands drawn up to his chest, fingers lax, giving him a weasley appearance.
"Charlie," Howard greeted cordially. "I sent you an email. I've had to cancel our next couple of sessions."
Howard quickly caught on that Charlie wasn't looking at him but rather around him, looking to the door of the back room.
"I-I just n-needed to s-s-see you, d-doc," Charlie stammered with every twitch. "Thought we could talk, you know? We can just talk."
Howard leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, smile polite but firm—a human barricade.
"Sure, that's fine. What do you want to talk about? Weather? Sports? I've been looking at the stock markets, recently. Beans are up."
But Charlie wasn't listening. His eyes were glued on the far door.
"Didn't you have a kid here?" he asked. "I-I remember seeing...something."
"There was." Howard confessed. "He was my nephew from Detroit. He had come down for a visit, but I sent him home when things started getting a little too hectic. Charlie, you've been taking your medicine, right?"
"You sure he's not i-in th-th-there?" Charlie asked, inching just a little closer. "H-he kinda l-looked like..."
"Easy, Charlie." Howard warned with a small edge. "Just take it easy."
But he didn't.
Charlie suddenly charged like a bull, bowling Howard over, and suddenly his apartment became a china shop. Charlie started in the back room, quickly tossing it before moving on to the kitchen, Howard's own bedroom, and both bathrooms. Howard rushed back in, Bernie on his heels, and tried to regain control of the situation.
"Charlie, please! You've been making such good progress! If you stop right now, I won't have to call the police, and we can..."
Charlie suddenly spun on him, foam ant his mouth and a butcher knife now in his hand. Howard raised his hands defensively, and he slowly stepped back. Suddenly it was like he was in a horror film, and here Howard was playing the role of the camp councilor.
"Charlie," he said again, though his tone was much more firm. "Put that down, Charlie. You don't want this."
"No! I NEED IT!" Charlie screamed rabidly. "Ten thousand and no debts! No debts! The debts that mad my wife leave me! The debt that put me in the poor house! It's mine! I deserve it! Give it to me!"
Howard twisted his mouth, and he breathed in deeply before his expression hardened.
"Charlie, last warning. Put...the knife...down."
Charlie lunged. Howard sidestepped. Bernie held the line—like a furry barricade in slow motion. The man tumbled.
"Bernie, sit!" Howard snapped.
The dog dropped like a sack of concrete, his haunches resting atop Charlie's back and holding him in place. The man flailed like a tick in the jaws of a pair of pliers, now sobbing. Howard stomped down on his wrist, relieving him of his knife, before he came crashing down on Charlie, forcing his head to the floor.
"Now listen you!" he hissed into the man's ear. "I've been doing all I can to give you the help you desperately need, but I only have so much patience. So, for once in your life, take my bloody device and calm...down!"
Charlie went still. He was still sobbing, but it was clear he had given up the fight. Howard breathed hard and heavy, his heart hammering at his chest like an anvil, and with a shaky hand he reached and took out his cellphone. He hit the speed dial, and he put the receiver to his ear.
"Debbie, it's Howard. I'm sorry to call you while you're working, but I need to make a citizens arrest. We might have a problem."
............................................................
Deborah wholeheartedly agreed.
She had to end the call quickly, promising to send someone Howard's way, but she had her own problems as she pulled her car to a stop. The scene that awaited her was nothing she hadn't seen before, but it was no less sobering. A pair of ambulances were already driving off, but three more were replacing them as first responders tended to a number of wounded on the street corner. Deborah numbly made her way over where a pair of officers were waiting, one still scribbling in his notepad.
"How bad?" she asked calmly.
"Bad." an officer, a young boot, pale and sweating, stated. "No casualties, but it's..."
He excused himself, holding his stomach and vanishing down an alley. His superior shook his head.
"It was a run and gun," he said, picking up the beat. "No one got a clear look, but it sounds like a Bills hit squad—quick, efficient, but somewhat merciful. It seems they were sending someone a message."
"In Midtown?" Deborah asked, her anger bubbling into her tone. "This street is beyond their typical territory. What got their attention so that they'd do this in broad daylight?"
The officer motioned for her to follow, and they made their way towards a store window. It had been shot out, glass littering the sidewalk, and amidst the shards was something that made Deborah gasp. It was a poster for Midknight, now much holey-er and tinged in blood.
"The shop owner's son found it in the dumpster," the officer said, oblivious of Deborah's obvious panic. "Kid apparently liked it a lot, from what I've heard, and he was disappointed he missed the show mentioned in the print. He put it up in the window thinking it'd get attention for the store. I don't think this was what he had in mind."
Deborah felt faint, and she wanted to cry. But she no less held her grit and forced her tears to recede. She took a calming breath, letting the cool air of the morning flush through her system before she narrowed her gaze.
"Tag and bag what you can. So many bullets, they're gonna connect to someone, and when I want the call the minute they do. I want to twist their neck, personally."
The officer nodded and stepped away, shouting at the nearby CSIs and bringing them over. Deborah, in turn, made her way towards another target—a small boy sitting on the sidewalk. He was bloody, but not from any wound. However, it was the tears that had her attention, as well as the catholic rosary he was anxiously twining through his fingers.
"Tony?" Deborah cooed as she gently sat next to him. "It's ok, honey. You're alright."
The boy looked up at her. Dust mingled with his tears as muddy lines down his face, and it was clear he had been crying for some time.
"I just thought it was cool," he croaked. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't..."
Deborah wrapped her arms about him like a loving mother hen. He went limp in her arms, sobbing madly into her coat. Deborah held him—for as long as he needed. That was all she could do. But even as she whispered consoling words into his ear, she found her thoughts drifting to another boy who would no doubt be feeling the ripples of this. A boy who, like Tony, only wanted to live his life—and never asked to be hunted for it.
.............................................................
Jacob sat, and did little else.
The cot beneath him gave the occasional creak as his chest rose and fell, his breathing slow but heavy. Off to the side, a dusty radio murmured from the top of a battered dresser. It was supposed to be tuned to an easy listening station—calming music, something to settle his nerves.
Instead, it was a symphony of chaos.
Bulletins of rising violence spilled through the static: gamblers gone rabid in back alleys, street wars erupting between factions he'd seen just nights ago. Each report was more desperate than the last—homes burned, families scattered, neighborhoods torn apart by fear.
He closed his eyes.
And somehow, he could see it all.
The debtors clawing their way through Midtown, searching for a ghost that matched the police's loose description. Criminals in packs, hunting, torching, destroying. Screams echoed in his mind. He could hear them. He could feel them.
And they all cried out the same thing.
This was Midknight's fault.
What broke him was that he couldn't disagree.
If he hadn't gone out that night...
If he hadn't put on the armor...
If he'd just ignored the bazaar...
If he hadn't followed the Luminos...
If they hadn't gone to the diner...
But always, without fail, the trail of guilt led back to one moment—the moment all the madness began.
The moment Laramie disappeared.
It had been so abrupt. Just gone, and then the accusations started—rumors, sightings, all placing Laramie in the center of disaster zones across the city.
It didn't make sense.
None of it made sense.
Unless...
A thought surfaced. One he had buried every time it tried to rise. A thought that had no evidence, and yet somehow, felt truer than anything.
A thought that terrified him.
Was Laramie ever really his uncle?
Jacob was book smart. Books were why he was smart. And he'd read enough of them—watched enough late-night TV—to recognize a trope when he saw one.
A baby taken in by someone claiming to be family wouldn't know the difference. Not at first. Not even years later.
He had ignored the signs. Pretended they weren't there. But they were.
Always on the move. No hospitals. No schools. No paper trail. Their only real connection to the outside world came in the form of park benches and the handful of neighbors who remembered them between dive motels and decrepit apartments.
And Laramie?
He was the most secretive son of a gun Jacob had ever known.
Always tinkering with that strange project in his steamer trunk. Always running from some new debt. Always speaking in riddles when Jacob asked about their past. The day he gave Jacob the Sterling Star—that cursed beginning of it all—was the first and only time Jacob had even heard mention of his mother.
Just one mention.
One.
He thought of Merrick, Nina and Gloria. The people who actually knew who his mother was. Who hinted at truths, then hid the rest.
Was that it?
The proof?
The awful truth he'd never dared say aloud but had always, always, known in his bones?
He shook his head so hard the world tilted. His knees buckled slightly as he stood and staggered toward the window. He collapsed against the window frame, his breath misting the glass as he stared at the street beyond.
Sirens howled in the distance. Smoke curled into the sky above the water towers like some ghostly signal. His lip trembled as he mouthed an apology to no one, and his body quivered under the weight of it all. He slid to his knees. A sob stuck in his throat—caught somewhere between his chest and the silence. The walls around him felt like they were closing in, suffocating.
Stop.
He just wanted it all to stop.
His eyes drifted back to the window. Down below, the front walk stretched out like an open hand. From here, it was twenty-three and a half feet. He'd measured it once for a game, but now that detail clung to his mind like a splinter. His hand returned to the glass. It was thin—cheap stuff. A brick would go through it like paper.
No one else was there.
No one to see. No one to stop him.
He imagined the silence that would follow. No sirens. No voices. No expectations. Just...darkness. Deep and soft. Untouchable. No one could yell at him there. Nothing could hurt him.
He rose slowly, almost weightlessly, like someone waking up in reverse.
It would be easy.
So very, very easy to just...
He was suddenly snapped from his daze by a blaring horn set to the tune of La Cucaracha. It was a sound most beautiful that Jacob hadn't heard in some time. Again, he looked outside the window, and there she was—bright green and blue with the fifth wheel bolted to the front plus four shiny new treads. The bumper was still slanted, but it was all part of that glorious rig's character. Jacob took off with renewed vigor, all but flying through Paradiso before he burst through the front doors. He was just in time to see Joe's tow truck rolling away, the large man offering a wave before vanishing down the road. Waiting for Jacob in the driver's seat, giving the horn another blast, was none other than Lance. The brainy tween wore a rather proud smile as he offered a wave, and he hopped out to greet Jacob as he approached. Jacob, for his part, was completely numb as he ran a hand over the hood. His uncle had put the old girl in the shop for an oil change. Nothing more, nothing less. But the paint was new, the tires and hubcaps were new, the upholstery was new, and the car's interior was clean for the first time since Jacob was a toddler. There was even a trashbag in the back that seemed to have items Jacob and Laramie had stored in the van. Jacob looked back to Lance, the young man looking as aloof as ever though there was a small grin on his face.
"What did...huh?"
Jacob just couldn't find his words.
"You like it?" Lance chirped. "Joe's quite the handy man, even thought this was a rush job. There was even this weird gunk under the gas pedal was super disgusting. It took three spatulas, an entire can of goo-be-gone, and even..."
"How much did this cost?!" Jacob finally exploded. "Lance, I couldn't even pay for the oil change, so how in the blazes do I pay for all of this?!"
Lance, though unfazed, cocked his head to one side.
"You...don't. I covered it, and I insisted on the additional stuff. I used my Bazaar money. Good thing I do my stuff digitally, huh?"
Jacob balked at the boy. It took him a moment to remember that Lance had a stall for his repair service in the Bizarre Bazaar to fund Paradiso's repairs and eventual reopening.
"Wait a minute. You mean, you used that money...for me?"
Lance bobbed his head.
"But...why? You never shut up about how much you love this place, and it's all but falling down around your ears. So why would you use it on me?"
Lance's grin brightened a bit more.
"Porque puedo."
Jacob scowled.
"Ok!" he said hotly. "That's like the billionth time you've said that phrase, and while I know it's Spanish that doesn't mean I speak it. What the crap does it even mean?"
"Because I can." Lance replied. "Porque puedo means because I can, and because I can I do. It's what Abuela always said whenever she started her day. There were people that needed help, and she could help, so she did help. Nothing more, nothing less. I noticed that you've been kinda down lately, so I got that money and talked to Joe about getting your car fixed up. He complained a bit at first, but I wore him down. He can be a bit of a gorilla, but he's more of a plushie than the actual animal."
He started to walk past him.
"I'll give you two some time alone. I need to get back to work on that black box we found, anyway. I'm usually a whizz at hacking, but whatever your uncle did to set this thing up is pretty brilliant. I'm excited to see what's inside."
Soon, he vanished into Paradiso, leaving Jacob alone with the van. He hopped into the driver's seat and shut the door. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, feeling the leather against his palms. He remembered when his fingers were too small to even wrap around the wheel—such a simpler time. He scanned the interior fully, letting the memories flow as what faint odors of the past remained filled his nose. This had been his home, his entire world. Beyond these four doors, there had been little else. Just the short ventures into a much larger sphere of chaos that was beyond his controlled, comfortable environment. Sitting in this seat again didn't fix his problems, but it sure felt good. However, his thoughts shifted, and he found himself thinking of Lance.
"He really is a sweet boy, isn't he?"
Jacob jolted, and then he spied Nina sitting in the passenger seat. He hated that the Luminoes could just pop up out of nowhere, but, for once, he was happy to have company.
"He really is, isn't he?"
They both fell into silence, a cricket that had snuck in quietly chirping.
"How does he do it?" Jacob said at last. "The kid has been on his own for four years, lives in a place that should've been condemned six ways over, is under the constant threat of being plucked up by DHS, and has been beaten up and forced to pay money to some schmuck that wears a stupid hat and a sports coat. But, despite it all, he's just so...nice. He's the nicest person I've ever met in my entire life, but I don't understand why?"
Nina closed her eyes and let out a little sigh, looking wistful yet melancholy.
"It truly has become such a foreign concept, hasn't it? Goodness for Goodness sake?"
Jacob flashed her a questioning look.
"It's what my people were looking for when we first came to this world," she went on. "Humanity proved to be a violent, wild, unpredictable race, one we felt we could teach much. However, it was those small individuals what taught us even more. Those that desired valor and kindness without the promise of reward what touched our hearts so greatly. Desire was one such person."
A fresh jolt ran through Jacob at the mention of his mother's name.
"Could you tell me more about her?" he asked. "What was she like?"
"The truth?" Nina replied. "She was quite a lot like Lance. She was generous to a fault, taking in the weary and offering them a warm place to stay. She was also a hard worker, running her family business after everyone she loved died due to a recent epidemic. When she first met your father, it was after our actions had run him into the ground, breaking him completely. He was a man that had given up on life. Your mother picked him up, fed him, and helped him to find his feet again. She cleansed him, body and spirit, and soon he was better than ever before. Not once, not a singular time, did she ever ask for anything in return."
She opened her eyes, and she turned to Jacob proper.
"I can understand how frustrated you must feel. It isn't fair, and I know I and my kin haven't made things much easier. But please don't let the madness that has claimed this city claim your views on humanity. Look deep enough, and you'll find the good that not only lingers, but perseveres."
Jacob looked back to Paradiso, back to the small boy that had offered him so much. Something in his gut twisted as he thought of how ungrateful he had been, not to mention calling him a turd multiple times. He spun around in the seat and grabbed the trash bag, pulling it closer and inspecting its contents. After a few moments, he came up with a small coffee can, which he opened to reveal a large collection of coins.
"My rainy day fund," he said, answering Nina's unasked question. "I'd been saving this for three years, and it isn't even remotely enough to pay him back."
Nina sighed again.
"Jacob, dear, weren't you listening? He doesn't want you to pay him back. He did this solely out of the goodness of his heart."
"I understand that!" Jacob insisted. "I just...I dunno! I want to do something nice for him. A way to show him I'm grateful for helping me out."
To that, Nina smiled.
"Well, you can't buy a car with that, but I'm sure you could get him a thank you card. As I understand it, that's the traditional show of thanks these days."
Jacob's face lit up, and he nodded in agreement. He found his old baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses which made for a quick disguise. He then made his way out of the van and out onto the sidewalk. He couldn't risk being in town for too long, not with so many folks hunting for him, but he knew in his heart this was something he needed to do.
But, as he made his way into the city, he failed to notice a pair of shady figures slinking into a manhole cover before vanishing into the sewers.