Paresthesia Pt. 03

"In his defense," says the right, "He just wanted legal weed. Figured that once it was passed, it would be more of a pain to get rid of the law than anything it actually caused."

"That was the last one that required a conversation," middle says again, "There is system that all Doppels agree to before manifesting in full."

"But what if a Doppel doesn't agree to it," asks Riot.

"Hasn't happened," says the left, "And that is a bridge we will cross when we come to it."

"But what if it does," she says, "I gotta know. Will there be two groups of The Doppel Gang? Will there be a Doppel War? Who will I side with in this Doppel War?"

"Riot," I say, "Please stop. You're distressing The Doppel Gang. We like our Doppels unstressed."

"No, no, Beat," says the right, "These are good questions to ask. We have talked about it, but there is no consensus. We are a work in progress."

"Sorry to break this up," I say, "But we're getting ready for the round table. We just need one of you."

By some unspoken word, they elect the middle to serve as a representative. He nods to the rest of himself and starts carving our way to the edge of the crowd. My hand finds Riot's again and I make sure that nothing will make me let go.

---

Smoke, the entire room smells like smoke. Cigar and cigarettes, pipes and maybe even a hookah, every inch of every wall has been baked and stewed in tobacco. I can't stand it. I can't even see it. I can barely make out the hazy lights overhead. I can barely make out the face across from me. Ultra-Violence takes her normal place while I take mine. The Doppel has his and that just leaves the two newcomers debating where to sit. It's always the hardest choice. Just as in the high school lunchroom, it sets the stage for whatever comes next.

Alizarin takes her sweet time to choose her side and settles to somewhere a bit too far to be part of the group. And kicks her feet on the table. Mistake. She has now tried way too hard to be cool and now everyone thinks she isn't cool. She might be cool. The demon mask and the pointy gloves and the long coat with one sleeve torn off do a good enough job, honestly. The smoke parts and I see that it is actually burned off. More points into cool, but still not enough to cover the spread.

Riot has her moment to think and still chooses me above all else, right at my side. Violence makes sure to brush off a nonexistent smear of dust. There is nothing to see here and it is all not worth her time. But Riot keeps trembling a bit, not the quake, not the thunder, just nerves. Within the smoke, hidden from the rest, my hand taps the back of her palm. She does not go for the grip. I just get another touch carrying the faintest thrum of her core.

The lights go out and I roll my eyes for no one at all except for me. Sunday always has to have this moment. I do not blame him. A bit of theatrics goes a long, long way. But I am a bit tired of it. Hopefully Riot and Alizarin take it in stride.

"Old man," shouts Violence, "You need to stop doing this. I'm surprised you can still move that fast."

A smoky chuckle drifts through the air.

The lights come back up and an elderly gentleman in a smoke-stained suit sits at the head of the table, a wall of film grain behind him. I kind of preferred the spinning news reel, honestly. But there is something to be said for the random flame flickers of affected antiquity.

"I apologize," Bloody Sunday says, "but I have to. I simply have to. And never, ever suggest I'm not as spry as I ever was. I'd be willing to put money down that I can still do some things you can't."

I can feel Violence roll her eyes. I believe the man honestly, if only for experience.

He is old. There is no other way to say it. Bloody Sunday is an old man in an old suit with an old mind. But the eyes, the eyes still sparkle and shine with just a dash of that ancient manic high. He saw the first murder where rock met skull. He saw the first slit throat and cut purse. He saw the first back-alley deal and the first boardroom take over. Maybe not all of that, but he at least looks like it. He still has his original hair, all his original teeth, and all the original wrinkles that can never be ironed out with days in the sun. From his left wrist snakes a thin tube, crimson, pooling into a bag of the same red hanging at his waist. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls a cigar. The other hand finds a gold lighter that opens with a satisfying click. The smoke finds more air to pollute and I need a knife to cut the air and actually see anything.

"Welcome friends," Bloody Sunday says, "Welcome to the round table."

"But the table is square," says Riot.

It's silent. The room is silent. Every eye is on her and I feel her shrink into her seat. She tries, she tries so hard to hide in the dark wood and soft leather.

"Y'know," says Sunday, "I never noticed that. I think I need to air out this room. And my eyes aren't what they used to be. I'll need to get a guy to cut some corners."

"Like you don't do that already," says Violence, "Every time, every single time, the beer gets worse."

"Violence, what have I done to deserve such terrible treatment from you? I open my doors, give you a seat at my beautifully square round table, feed you, give you drinks."

"Someone has to take you down, old man. Doppel's too nice, Alizarin and Riot are new, and Beat likes you too much."

"And that's why Beat is still my favorite. So, if you're done, let me try that again."

He takes a deep, deep pull from the cigar and puts a ring in the air before clearing his throat.

"Friends," he says, voice smoke and gravel and sand, "Friends one and all, welcome to our little square table. Today is a great day. Our ranks our filled, our enemies slowly fade and we are as kings and queens."

Violence and I thump the table with a closed fist. Alizarin jumps a bit and finally takes her feet down. It's much too nice for that, but certainly sturdy enough for a fisting.

"And now we come to the grand question of what to do next. A city undefended and ripe for plucking. A major show of force. Fear and desolation and so much money."

"Does he always talk like this," Riot whispers to me.

"Pretty much. Let the old man have his fun. I think I know where it's going anyway."

"We hit the Hall of Righteousness."

Once again, the room goes silent for a long, long moment. I did not know where this was going.

"We got other stuff to do, Sunday," says Violence, "There's the Cobra Ruby coming up the river I want to nab from the natural history museum. High wire heist like."

"Had my eye on some car jackings," says Alizarin, "Solar had some things left in his mansion. I want them to be my things now."

"My casino is putting on a high rollers night next week and I'm due for another raid," says a Doppel, "I need all my eyes on that one."

Sunday takes a hand to his temple and starts soothing the rising pressure.

"Every time. Every single time. It says something about this generation. Why am I the one who has to fight tooth and nail to get you all up and running? Doing something flashy? The stars have aligned for this one. Two new members of our little family. One of them with insider knowledge of the Hall of Righteousness. And Captain Solar, the hardest hitter they have, has been sent packing. By that same newcomer."

"To be fair," Riot says with surprisingly more force than I thought she would, "Beat helped me with that."

"I bet he did," mutters Violence.

"Point still stands," Sunday shoulders on, "it's a good alignment. It's a good move. Loud. Flashy. Something big. Big is good right."

"I understand what you're saying," says the Doppel, "But what do we gain from all that? There's tech, sure, files, information. Maybe something worthwhile in someone's desk, but there's no money in it. If you're strapped for cash, my vaults are open to all of you. But I don't think any of us are starving."

"It's an escalation," says Violence, "And that's not how things have been. We do something like this, and they actually start cracking down. Masks have to go up all the time. Roulette Club doesn't have the same atmosphere and just goes back to being for the good guys. You're the one who pushed those doors open back in the seventies, if I recall my ancient history."

"And we've hit their compounds since," says Sunday, "Look, they won't like it, but it's all in good fun. We've hit the Solarium while the previous occupant was still in there. Slithered in the Snake Pit. Robbed Deadman's Grave. Azure and Windstep don't have a place yet but bet your bottom dollar that's getting the once over. Might even do it twice."

"That's different than hitting the Hall, man," says Violence, "Do you think they'd take that lying down? We've worked hard for this."

"Beat," says Sunday, "You've been very quiet throughout all this. You have a right to say something. All of you do."

I take a deep breath and let the thoughts collect. They've been stewing and simmering for a bit, and I have some words that they translate to.

"What do we get out of it," I say, "What is in there? That's my question, same as Doppel. If it's a weapon, or some tech, or some files, sure. If it's just to put up a score, then I'm out. If it's for something, then I'm listening."

"Shame, absolute shame," he says, "That the best answer I get is a tepid maybe. Do you need a reason? We're the bad guys. We do things like this because we want to. If that isn't a good enough reason, then I don't know what is."

He sighs and slumps. He's old. So incredibly old. Older than the stars and the sky.

"Sunday," I say, "I'm not here to take the wind out of your sails. I thought this was going to be just a meet the new guys deal. You just spring this on us out of nowhere and what are we supposed to say? 'Yes sir, how high's the jump?' You didn't structure it this any way like that. We have a council. We have a right to push back on anything like this. You're not giving us a reason, and that's not winning me over. If anything, it's pushing me and I'm going to say the others, farther and farther away from this."

"If its info," says Doppel, "Then that has me worried. Gathering intel is the first part of a war. None of us want that. Some of their tinkered toys, same thing. As just a show of force, then there are other ways. Mayor's daughter will be home for the summer soon. She can pay a visit to Uncle Sunday for a few weeks. Might even be a nice break for her."

"We're established, Sunday," says Violence, "People know us. We have flash. We have staying power. We're not small time."

"But you're thinking small time," says Sunday, "Just like always. Lost the spark. Lost the dream. Do what you please from the land of take what you want."

"Ben," says Doppel, "Ben, give us a target. Give us a reason. That's all we ask. If you can't then, I don't know what this entire meeting was about. Alizarin, I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to you, but Riot, wonderful to meet you out of work."

She just nods. Sunday, Ben, doesn't try to stop him. Just lets him walk away, lets the vent happen and the emotions simmer down. He sighs and finds more air to deflate. All that energy, all that vim and vigor out in less than half an hour. Kind of impressive in its own way. But I can't help but feel bad.

Maybe he's right. Lack of initiative, fight, spark, je ne sais quoi, whatever it is, but I'm not putting that on the line for a spur of the moment lark.

Violence and Alizarin are the next to leave with a shrug and a wave respectively. I do not watch either of them leave, with swaying hips and tight jeans. We get up to follow, but Sunday calls out.

"Ms. Riot," he says, "Would you mind staying a moment? I hoped to have this conversation before, but better late than never. Don't worry, Beat, I won't keep her too long."

"I got all the time in the world Sunday. And I never said no. Just let me think about it."

He nods and I move to somewhere with fresh air again.

---

I kick my feet off the edge of the docks, eyes to the water. It's still early, relatively speaking. The Doppels didn't hang around and neither did Alizarin. Violence and the Droogs are still in there probably. Riot's in there definitely. I am out here because I was starting to get a headache.

The river winds and flows as it wants to. Nothing can stop it. Nothing wants to stop it. It just goes downstream, carrying everything that wants to come along for the ride. A can, a twig, what is probably a tire, all pass me by. Better than was back in the day, from what I've heard. We had one of those rivers that caught on fire every so often. I suppress the urge to throw something else in there. It would just make it that much worse. I don't want my river to be on fire.

"So," Riot says, "Not how I expected my first bad guy meeting to go. Expected more evil laughing and maybe some caged girls dancing."

"Those only come out at Sunday's birthday parties. Violence gets them ready," I say. I stretch out and let the planks take my back and make it straight. Something pops. I should really work on my posture. She sits down next to me. She is straight, ramrod railroad spike straight. Rigid, tense, completely still.

"Good talk with the old man?" I ask.

"Oh yeah. Smoked a cigar with him and offered me some whiskey. I didn't take the whiskey. The cigar was nice though. Might have to get a couple of those at some point. What do we do now?"

I shrug and she lies down next to me. The boards creak. I do not trust them, but they've held this long. A pair of bodies should be safe.

"Is it weird that I kind of want to take that job?" she says. It's not really a question for me. It's an idle pondering that has no answer. I just let it hang.

"I always thought you guys were a lot more... I don't know, chaotic, than that. And I do want to do something big."

I don't say anything. I let the thoughts tumble and fall all around us, trying to slot some picture together.

I'm not tired. There is still a bit of energy in the limbs and the core. There are city lights and stars and running water. I should not be still. It is coming and going as it is needed.

The boards creak again and that same fear comes again. Three people, now we are really pushing the limits. Despite my energy, I think that a swim would not be the most productive expenditure.

"How romantic," says Violence, "but I think I have a better idea than staring at the docks. Come on newbie, I'm taking you for a ride."

Riot looks to me and I think I see a bit of fear cross her eyes. I do not know why. Its Violence, and there will be violence, but not violence towards us. Violence rolls her eyes and coughs.

"Beat, you can come too," she says, "You're better at the crowd work anyway."

I am better at the crowd work, despite all the other skills possessed by the two incredibly capable women in my company. I roll backwards to my feet, probably sqwonking up my hair by some degree. I help Riot up and she does not let go of my hand.

"Come on," I say, "It'll be fun. You wanted some chaos. So, let's go do that. Car's running."

I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.

---

I do like Violence's car and it's one I haven't seen before. Older side, with a smooth cover over everything, all just barely off the ground. Pointy, too, with the wheels almost hidden under the draping metal. It has a splotch job of paint covering the sides, black and white, and streaks of color like someone spent the better part of an afternoon just plinking the thing with paintballs. That's probably what she did. And it is running very nicely. Low and deep, rumbling like a volcano about to erupt. That seems to calm down Riot a bit, or at least distract her. And it is a good distraction. The door opens with a slight touch and a glance I am allowed to clamber in. I am confused a bit by the long bench in front, but it's enough for all of us to ride some sort of shotgun.

"Just so everyone knows the score," says Violence, "Allie is now my favorite. She gave me this. Sunday and Doppel got something too. Don't know why you didn't get anything."

I shrug. I don't even have my license. No harm, no foul.

It pulls away and we are gliding through the night like a phantom made manic. I am scared of Violence's driving. It is not bad. Nothing she does is bad. But the speed and the jerk and all the motions clashing together has to incite some sort of panic. Narrow misses are misses, but they are still narrow.

"Can I change the station?" asks Riot.

"No," says Violence. And that is another mark in the column against the two. I agree with Riot. It's classical, which is fine and dandy, but brings back bad memories for me. Maybe Riot too. The arrangement and the instrumentation are grating as well. Weird bits where it feels like my skull is sliding together, each plate a separate joint that needs proper alignment. I do not care for it. It's her own personal mix too, so skipping and hoping for the best wasn't an option. There were no good options at all.

So, we ride and turn and squish together, jostling through light and metal and all sorts of close calls.

"Where are we going," Riot asks.

"Somewhere fun," Violence says.

"Give her a straight answer, Sylvia," I say, "Or at least give one to me."

"Fine, fine. No sense of adventure. Pliskin's got a new shipment this morning and I feel like my collection needs some more pieces. And don't you want to get something nice for your sweetie? That's why I wanted to keep it a surprise. Now she knows and she has the surprise ruined."

"I like knowing things though," Riot says, "Especially, when I get into a car that seems to be on the verge of tipping over if I shift my weight a little.

Violence slams on the brakes and I am almost thrown from the windshield. Riot has the same predicament. Violence is fine. She's always fine.

"And if either of you had a bit of patience, you would have found out anyway," she says. A quick drum of her fingers and a slow stretch and some of her knuckles crack and pop and she looks to me expectantly.

"Simple smash and grab," she says, "Cameras, alarms, that whole thing, but we're already masked. Most of the cops are down at the Spiders game right now in case there's a riot. And there might be."

"Playing the Hares?" I ask.

"Think so."

"Then there will be either way. We should still do this quick. Not exactly a subtle ride you picked."

"We're not a subtle bunch. Riot, you're with me on collection. Beat, you're on crowd control. I'm seeing five people in, including the clerk. See if you can get a safe or a code or something for the alarms from him. I don't want the alarms blaring, even if they summon nothing. They give me a migraine."

I reach behind me and grab my trusty bat. It is now crowded in front of the postmodern automobile. I take a deep breath. Riot takes a deep breath. Violence takes a deep breath. We all need a moment. And the moment is gone and we are out on the street.

Riot Girl lays her fingertips against the pane of glass with elegant lettering painted on it. It says Pliskin's Jewelers and it's a very fine window. Probably very expensive. But not in a way that can be taken and sold by such low lives like me and my companions.

She curls the fist and the boom shatters the world.

I decide to take that moment for myself and it is glorious. Riot is framed by snowflakes glittering in the streetlamps. She is coved in little pinpricks of starlight. And I can see the shockwave shroud. I can see the slight tremor of reality from her will. I let the bat slide down from my shoulders and find some impact in my palms. I touch her shoulders and use my weapon to clear a me sized hole.

There were five, including the cashier. And they just happened to notice the car and the denim and the leather and the colors waiting on the other side. They do not notice me slipping through the moment. I do the courtesy of smashing some of the displays in an effort to herd the reaction against the far wall. I do not want anyone getting hurt. I give back the world its time when I so chose, the wall of shock and awe erected and tall.