Day 97

"Shame I'm not here for the food," Raging Tempest murmured.

On the laundry-covered roof of some nameless tenement in the China Block he stood, taking it in. Cheap brick and mortar buildings diced up into ethnic enclaves with walls and quite literal cutthroat alleys. This was Lower Lakeside, the belly of the beast in Railroad City. Lanterns with undecipherable characters hung still on this dry night. A woman well wrinkled with age busied away beating the life out of a dusty carpet. The air was thick with the scent of chicken broth and herbs.

Tempest's stomach howled. He tightened his belt a notch. Years back, Dad used to bring him out here on cultural field trips. That is, whenever they could rub two pennies together to make a meal. He reminisced about Dad on every patrol. Would he have approved of his son's nightlife? The secrets?

The brown domino mask!

Let's get the jar and go. He made a curt jog to the edge of the roof, followed by a confident leap on paranormal legs. Past the dubious fire escape he plummeted, right down into an alley of filthy puddles and victimized trash cans. The masked man landed with the grace of a puma, only to slip taking his first step.

He turned quickly, assuming a defensive hunch at a slight sound. Another elderly woman, at her doorway with an ancient broom was, giggling? She pointed to his feet. Another step, and he practically skated in her direction. She laughed aloud. Tempest huffed, curling his thin lips into a full-on pout. He straightened his three-piece suit, all brown save the white dress shirt and beige necktie. Carefully, strategically he walked down the alleyway, pulling his fedora down farther, shadowing his face.

"Ma'am," he whispered on his way out. Note to self: Do not wear old shoes! The man's massive shoulders barely squeezed through the next passage. He made another mental note that he needed more of a costume, like the older vigilants had, instead of ruining his work clothes night after night. The jacket grinded like gnashing teeth against both brick walls.

Yep. Buy more clothes.

Rounding a sharp corner, he came to the place. Surrounded by singular homes at the bend in the road sat a pagoda-style curio shop, long and dark as if painted in shadows. A faulty cold lamp hung on creaky brass chains above the door.

Leather-gloved hands frisked every pocket, until at last the card was located. Tempest eyed it angrily through the lenses in his mask:

                                                            We believe Lung Yen took the liver.

                                                                   New face in the local Tong.

                                                                Paranormal Rating: Unknown

                                        Qing Shui Herbals- 222 Rose Garden Road- China Block

Not really secret data once you put it on a card, Doctor Pielk. Those guys at the Bunker spent too much time sneaking around and inhaling negatrite fumes to know what was good for them. But that was all moot at this point. He came to retrieve the liver of the Rail's greatest resident, and he certainly wasn't leaving without it.

The front door was mainly frosted glass, etched in a maze of characters in vibrant crimson.

Heh, probably translates as 'ominous'.

He opened it with extra care. It did not stop the bell above from ringing loudly. Tempest hung his head, and sighed. Then, he strode through the door with boldness.

Without hesitation, twelve small men, each possessing a different tool to cut his flesh, rushed the door. The mask exhaled and went into a splendid boxing routine, left hook and right jab downing the first two men. The remaining ten skid to an almost ludicrous stop, and eyed this gorilla of a man in a beaten suit. Tempest eyed them with tense irritation, that square jaw grinding in anticipation.

He feinted to rush them, and their flinching produced a wry smile on the hero's face. One paranormal versus many a meat cleaver, a dagger and a shovel? No contest! He stood tall once more.

"Where is Lung Yen? I have business with him."

They stared blankly, perhaps none spoke English. One man retreated ever so slowly to the rear of the store, as the nine left relaxed just a bit. It gave Tempest a moment to eye the store, a rather well stocked garble of medicinals. Heavy glass jars of a dizzying variety of herbs. Incense stacked to the ceiling. Strange fragrances wafted about, giving the air a heavy, exotic feel. Every corner had a shining statuette of a dog, or a lion. Who knew? At the far rear was a thick iron door well-aged with rust, a fine redwood desk supporting a heavy Victorian era register.

From behind a series of curtains came the small man, followed by an exceptionally tall and lanky Chinese gentleman in flowing robes. He had greased back gray hair atop a high forehead, and an odd, friendly face. However, Tempest didn't like the wild look in the man's eyes, a contrast to the deceptive calm of his expression. But the robe! A flame pattern danced all around the border. It hurt the mask's eyes, even with its white lenses. It made him wonder about this Yen fellow, even made him a tad nervous.

"Welcome Hero. I am very humbled to see the liberator of the Free Block. Many of my Negro friends speak highly of you. I am Lung Yen." He smiled, revealing the most perfect set of teeth Tempest had ever viewed.

"Tubby had it coming," the mask answered. "I understand you, or your goons, broke into the Canterra Bunker and stole the liver of the Burning Woman. Hand it over."

Lung paced away from the desk, and made his way in a slow glide to the rear door. The fire images changed to blue. How was that possible?

Oh boy.

"Ah yes! I have such a thing. You do not know what you have. Sitting on a shelf? Collecting dust! Do you not know the liver is the source of power, her power to burn? I must have it. I was born for it, you see."

I'm going to regret asking this but..."And what do you 'need' it for?"

Lung Yen puffed out his thin chest with pride. "I will consume it, to add her power to my own, of course."

Yep. Regretted that!

"You're going to do what now? Are you--? I don't even know why I'm trying to figure you out! Hand. It. Over." Tempest walked ahead, making 'I wish you would' faces at every one of Lung's men. They made sure they didn't. He strode right back to Lung Yen, stood just an inch from his face. The fiend smelled oddly like burning flesh.

Yen's wide grin became a condescending laugh. "Of course, big hero! Of course! You must be bold, yes? We must play the game! You can have the jar and its contents." He forced open the rusty door, revealing an enclosed courtyard cluttered with junk and potted plants.

"You may have it, and leave in peace, if you defeat me." He walked out even calmer than when he entered the scene.

Tempest rubbed his broad chin, puffed out a sarcastic laugh. Is this cat serious? Every moron with at least a G-grade wants to play Wild Bill!

"I assure you, you will not get it any other way," Lung stated, an arctic chill riding with the words.

Even more surprising to the young hero, were his own feet marching him right out into the fray. Anger and ego took its hold, his typical calm diffused by his enemy's wicked hubris. All the while his compartmentalized lungs were storing in concentrations of air. Loaded and ready.

Never taking his eyes off the thief, Tempest made his way to the opposite end of the yard, avoiding cluttered shards of broken pottery.

"Listen, brother, there's more to be gained by –"

Fire in streaming hot scarlet came out him so fast, it quite literally took the words right out of Tempest's mouth, and air from his lungs! He burned hot, trying as much as he could to roll to his right. There was nowhere to hide from the storm. The brown dress jacket went up in a hail of ashes, as did his necktie. He tried to hold in the pain.

Yes, hold it in, wait to counter.

He could not. Out came such a scream of anguish, of agony. The man was burning alive. But with such a yell, from a man with hurricane respiration, came his own tremendous storm.

At first, the air enhanced the fire, if but for a hair's breadth of time. Its sheer power made it too much of a meal for Yen's flames to stomach. It surrendered like unsuspecting prey to a predator, until the gale crossed the yard. It pummeled Lung Yen, sliding him on skidding shoes back against the wall. Bones cracked upon impact, saliva from his mouth immediately flew into his own face. He became like a doll glued to the barrier by the cries of his opponent.

The Raging Tempest did not stop until all of his pains were expunged. Once he reached the limits of his own endurance, he collapsed on a now pristine cobblestone floor. Not a trace of dust was near him, all debris having blown across the way, or over the wall. He rested on his knees, grinding his teeth in pain. The stars above were lucid, multiplying in the hero's watery vision.

Suddenly, hands were all about him, hoisting the vigilant onto his feet. He had not the strength to fight back. Through the blurs he could make out the fiend's goons all around. Their faces no longer looked vile, but rather placid.

"We are very sorry for earlier. Slaves we all are to Yen. Whole neighborhood for years! You saved us! Everyone says feichang gang xie. Thank you very much!"

It was true. Even through the blurry, smoked lenses, he could discern the entirety of the wall's ridges were amassed now in people. He had the definite feeling of being watched, and of being in the worst throes of pain in his entire life. He reeked with the same scent as Lung, only it was his own flesh smoking.

From above, came the red lights and steaming hisses of a Civil Patrol aerowing. It dropped down into the yard, venting out hot air that blew dirt into the faces of the onlookers, as the craft's double wings slid back into the side slots. Cranking, puffing out odorous fumes. Tempest felt grateful for introducing himself to them on his first outing, three months ago. Some of these 'Civvies' were prejudiced ingrates. He hoped the duo in this twenty-year old jalopy would have half a heart.

The sliding doors lifted up, showing two familiar faces.

Foggerty and Song. Great, might as well shoot myself now.

"Tempest! What in the world do you have going on here?" asked Foggerty. He jumped out like a mad dog, quick to unfurl the whip. Every Patrol car held two men. One cop was equipped with the rocket revolver (and optional dampener rounds) and the older guy, with the voltage whip.

Too hurt for words, the hero found himself surrounded by the freed thugs. "He save us from that man!" they yelled in English and Mandarin and Cantonese. Every person pointed to Lung Yen, now a still pile on a junked floor.

Song, a Chinese though snarled at by the residents, checked Yen's pulse. "He's a goner," he spoke, and reached down fast for the revolver. A weary Tempest put his singed arms painfully toward the sky. "Listen..."

Foggerty gave every local an authoritarian stare, while walking Tempest's way. He leaned in close, as if he owned the hero's personal space. "It's OK, pal. That's mighty white of you to do us a favor down here. One less piece of yellow rice to pluck, you know?"

Pain stopped him from wrapping his powerful hands about the Civvy's long neck. And these mooks were put in power to replace the corrupt cops of old.

Instead, his body, humbled by the showdown, moved him in uneasy steps away from the scene. He instinctively leaped up to the wall, and regretted it. Leg muscles tightened in protest, only the shoulders of several awestruck children kept the vigilant from tumbling down to Iron Hoof Corner.

As he regained himself, a series of hands secretly passed something to his hands.

The jar! He clutched it like a baby, only glancing at it once. It gave him renewed life.

A small boy with a perfectly rounded face put a finger to his lips... shh!

"Hey, Tempest!" Foggerty yelled. "If you need some care, I've got you. I run some girls in that back alley, to keep 'em off the streets. You know, the one along Red Row? They'll take good care of you! We gotta watch each other's backs, right?" He smiled wide, while Tempest noticed Song hang his head in silent disgust.

"Oh," the hero grunted as the pain returned. He stretched, regretting that as well. "Girls. Yeah. Won't – forget."

He leaped off into the night.

Day 104

"So that's the story," Tempest related. "I broke the code. I killed a man."

"Who cares?" asked Sidekick, her back turned to him. She stood at the edge of the roof of the unused Giffen Warehouse by the lake, their agreed meeting spot. She was short but walked tall, wearing cowgirl gear and boots, all gold and brown. A light shoulder cape folded over in a minor breeze. He watched her stroke a leather bullwhip. When she turned her head his way, the tint of wide-lensed steel goggles hid her eyes, a checkered bandera smothered the face. A broad chocolate tando hat shaded everything. Lasso. Gun belt. A ton o' bullets. One crackerjack firebrand.

"I care!" he said forcefully. Amazingly, his paranormal physique (and a secret dose of Frontier comfrey) recovered, for the most part, from Lung Yen's firestorm. "I got into this to save lives, not be an executioner. I promised the Civs on Day One that I would arrest, not kill."

He clutched his gut in guilt-riddled pain. During recovery, he finally tailored a costume. Still a suit and fedora, but azure blue to remind him of what changed the city long ago. Silver bordering along the dress coat edges represented hope. Scarlet interior, tie, domino mask and gloves? Blood of the fallen.

"Listen, you old-fashioned dope! It's nineteen thirty-six! After all this country has been through, what with losing the war and everything else? The economic crash, people killing each other in the streets over politics or a slice of bread, and you think anybody cares about snuffing out some two-bit lowlife who made slaves of an entire community?" She spoke with such an air of bravado under that hat, and walked about the roof like a honed gymnast. He knew she came from money, and silently bet his reporter's instincts on it. He wondered what she gleaned about him.

Idiot, Sidekick thought as she eyed Tempest. A well-meaning idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. Guy picked me up off the street an' made me into something. I owe him for it. But he can't stop playing sucker.

"When someone's in a pinch, you're all aces, gal. But, as usual, blunt and thoughtlessly cold," he responded. No wonder the Chronicle dubbed her 'Worst of the West'. He hated their little titles the paper had for himself.

She relished hers.

"Soooo ... you used the new fangled vertograph I gave you to get me here, an' for what? A self pity trip?" she asked, ignoring his insult. She stuck out her hip and folded her buckler-clad forearms in an acute sign of annoyance.

"No," the hero said curtly. "I got the jar back to the Bunker safe this morning. Then I camped out over the China Block, watched aeros steam in and out." As he spoke, Patrol aerowings, three in 'V' formation, were flying fast towards a shiny new navy cloudcraft coming from the north.

Did they ever really leave from here?

He turned, and went to the opposing end of the roof. "I have to see a man about some black market Charlie armor. I hear tell it's a hot item."

"Tempest! You men are all alike! What the heck did you want me here for?"

"A Civvy named Foggerty. He runs Chinese girls in Red Row. Thought it might be – right up your alley. Consider it a direction in which to point your animosity."

He tried to shake the image of Yen's corpse from his mind. It remained.

Her expression of ire tightened into one of taut excitement. "You don't say? Why, yes! I will introduce myself to him. Say 'hello'!" She snatched up the whip; it blared with sonic fury. Increase the ruckus. Her talent.

The Raging Tempest smiled back. "Rendezvous here tomorrow night, same time?"

She tried her best to sound indifferent. "Yes. Why not?'

They both leaped away, into separate adventures.

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