Crossover Earth '98
Washington, D.C. -- the crime capital of the nation, some statisticians said. And no wonder, with Congress and the White House there, most comedians added. The weekend there had been pleasant enough, though; certainly far more restful than his usual weekend routine.
Zander's father was not a large man, but he had always seemed fairly imposing, with his stocky build and steel-grey hair. Tonight, though, Zander thought that Warren Greye seemed unusually tired. He must have received his latest assignment.
Zander's mother, on the other hand, was rather cheerful, smiling brightly at him as he sat down across the table from her. The restaurant was not the sort of place in which he normally ate, but it was, he supposed, a special occasion.
Midway through the dinner, Warren confirmed what his son had already deduced.
"So it's to be England this time?" Zander asked. "For how long?"
"Three months," answered his mother. "I've always wanted to see London."
Warren cracked a smile at that. "I have to admit, it's nice being sent to a country whose language we already speak. Remember when we were assigned to Beijing, Lyn?"
Zander's mother nodded. "I never did learn more than a dozen sentences, you know..."
"Oh, it wasn't so bad. The hard part was learning to read it, right, Zander?"
It hadn't seemed all that difficult, to him -- time-consuming, certainly, and sometimes confusing, but mostly a matter of memorization. Nevertheless, mentioning that observation would serve no purpose, and perhaps be impolite as well, so Zander nodded.
Soon, the talk turned to other topics.
New York, New York -- the crime capital of the nation, some other statisticians said. That meant very little, really; Zander took it as just more proof that you could never trust statisticians. They were always out to prove something, and their motives were not always what they seemed.
Tonight, though, it seemed that someone was out to prove those statisticians right. He had scarcely begun his patrol as Pariah, and already, he had seen to two attempted muggings; that might have been all that he encountered, on a normal evening.
Tonight was different. He had just left the second would-be criminal to the police (unconscious, thanks to judicious application of pressure point techniques) when he heard two quick, sharp cracks -- the sound of gunshots being fired.
Praying he wouldn't be too late, Pariah leapt in the direction of the shots. Perching on the edge of a rooftop, he quickly scanned the street. It seemed unusually empty for this time of night, but this he considered fortunate; there was less chance of someone getting hurt by accident. A third shot rang out, and he located the source.
The shop was a small jewelry store, wedged into the space between a coin-operated laundromat and a locksmith. Through the shop's front window, he could see two men. The closer of the two was clearly the one who had fired the shots; his target, a red-haired man, was unarmed.
A simple robbery, or something more? Well, there was no time to consider that. It was time to make an entrance.
He loosed his blade from its scabbard and bounded easily down to the street, landing almost in the doorway of the jeweler's shop. "Drop your weapons and surrender," he demanded, "or face the wrath of my blade!"
"Oh, please," drawled the redhead. Then he disappeared with a rush of incoming air.
Surprised, Pariah paused momentarily. While he hadn't expected the men to comply, he also hadn't considered the possibility that one of them might be a superhuman. He had never before encountered another who possessed a Gift.
The other man had lowered his gun slightly. Pariah saw his eyes widen and began to duck aside even as the man called, "Be-behind you..."
It probably saved his life. Something sharp and metallic cut through armor, cloth, and muscle, sliding into his back near his left shoulder. He clenched his teeth as the pain blossomed, burning like fire; his arm fell limply to his side, blood running in rivulets down the useless limb, staining the light grey of his bodysuit.
He completed his turn, ignoring the wound as best he could. For a normal man, it would be serious, possibly permanently crippling. But Pariah could feel the bleeding slowing, the damaged flesh beginning to mend. The Gift would heal his wound within the hour.
The red-haired man didn't know that. He leaned nonchalantly on a long metallic spear, as if it were a walking staff. "All talk and no action," he commented. "I hate that."
"So be it," Pariah answered, flowing into a basic slash. Almost lazily, the other man jumped high into the air, above the attack, shifting his weapon as he came down to block a second strike. He had, Pariah realized, far more skill than his manner might indicate. He was at least a master.
Beneath the cowl, Pariah smiled, and stepped up his attack. Again, the man avoided each strike, though his confident smirk had been replaced by a more neutral expression of concentration. Pariah continued his assault, driving the man back into the street.
Until the lance-wielder tired of taking the defensive and vanished again. On a hunch, Pariah spun, and this time, intercepted the weapon before it could strike him. "For shame. Striking from behind twice? Hardly honorable, wouldn't you say?"
"It works," the other replied, unruffled, and vanished again.
This time, he appeared to one side. Pariah jumped over the thrust and swung downward, opening a small gash in the man's right arm.
"Huh, so you learn from your mistakes. I'm impressed."
Blades crossed again, and the two entered a long exchange of blows, parries, and counterattacks. But now that they were out in the street, Pariah saw that he had the advantage; more of his hits were slipping through, though he was limited by his desire to avoid killing his opponent. "I wish that I could say the same," he noted, "but your methods leave something to be desired."
"Yeah, well, you're better than I thought. Too bad that's not saying much." His actions belied his words; as the man twisted aside, he left an opening. Pariah was quick to exploit it, leaping forward...
His blade cut through empty air as the man teleported again.
"Gotcha," the man crowed as Pariah turned to face him once more.
"Indeed." But Pariah knew that he would win this fight, unless something changed.
The man apparently knew it too, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Thanks for the workout, punk, but I've got places to be. See you around!" And before Pariah could reach him, he once again vanished. This time, he did not reappear.
After a few moments had passed with no sign of the teleporter, Pariah lowered his blade and turned toward the storefront. He nodded toward the man -- he would have bowed, but felt it best not to try until his back had healed more fully -- and said, "Thank you for the warning."
"N-no problem." The man was younger than he'd thought, perhaps younger than Pariah himself, and he was still wide-eyed at the sight of a battle between paranormals. "Thomas Hewes, NYPD," he said, by way of introduction.
"I am known as Pariah. That man..."
"He got away with a couple of pieces of jewelry. I don't think it was anything too fancy, but I'm no expert or anything..."
Pariah nodded. "He escaped today, but sooner or later, he'll make a mistake, and I'll be watching from the shadows. Waiting."
"Ahh... yeah. Hey, listen, you ought to call an ambulance or something, that--"
He waved his arm slowly, testing it, causing the policeman to trail off and gape in disbelief. There was still some stiffness, and the pain would not fade for several more minutes, but it was healing well. "It was, as they say, only a flesh wound," he explained.
The young officer shook his head. "Metas," he mumbled, then coughed. "Okay, in that case, if you'll come down to the station and fill out a report..."
"I think not. Farewell," Pariah replied. One ki-assisted leap took him high overhead, where he melted into the darkness.
The officer remained still for a few seconds, searching the night sky for a trace of the cloaked figure, then heaved a sigh. "They're never gonna believe this one..."