Hope & Fury (Heroes & Demons Book 2)
Chapter 1

The following is taken from a transcript of the case notes of Professor Claire Cunningham; acting as consultant psychiatrist to Biogenesis. Though individuals are named here, all materials are confidential and may only be made available to Ruth Sellers, CE Biogenesis UK, or Marcus Dixon, company founder.

Subject: Dr Richard “Rick” Carter

Cunningham: So, Rick, what the hell have you gotten me into this time?

Rick: You know I didn’t get you into anything, Ruth hired you. Presumably to piss me off.

Cunningham: Are you still sore about that? It was years ago, face it, I was right they were all dead.

Rick (frustration): Yes but not at the same time! It was purgatory you daft – (pause) we are going to get nowhere if can’t move on from Lost…

Cunningham: Agreed, so why don’t we get to the reason Ruth asked me to speak to you?

Rick: She doesn’t prescribe to the belief that PTSD has a shelf life? Come on, Doc, it’s been two years – do we have to go through this every…

Cunningham: Yes. Tell me about Ben.

(long pause)

Rick: Ben? Let me guess, you mean Jose Benjamin Ramirez; my on again-off again closeted lover who eventually managed to tell his fiancé he was a big old homo and seem to want to start a new life with me. But when we were fighting off the twisted powered-up remains of our former friend Janet Frasier, who supposedly died down in the Temple we’d recently gone on an expedition into but was resurrected by a creepy force that had been trapped down there for potentially a million years; then twisted into believing she was the First Horseman of the Apocalypse; well when we were stopping her from enacting the Blackout designed to bring the world into chaos, she took Ben hostage and practically exploded his chest in front of me. So while the world when dark, I blasted her into a battered husk before allowing the only man I’ve ever really loved to die in my arms. Do you mean that Ben?

(pause)

Or do you mean Ben Myers from accounting?

Cunningham (quietly): Yeah…the first one.

* * *

The club was packed that night, wall to wall. It was, after all, fetish night at Thigh High. The crowds had turned out in their dozens to come to the hottest niche nightclub in town, creating a wall of squeaking people uncomfortably picking PVC from unfortunate places while trying to still appear aloof and cool. The stranger in their midst saw it all but couldn’t say anything.

He moved slowly through them but with purpose and a destination in mind. The bar was ram packed with a leather wall, alternating between flesh and a black sheen in uneven yet still somehow rhythmic patterns. Men, women, anything in between or otherwise outside, all of them vying for the bartender’s selective attention. None of them saw him moving through the crowd, even those he passed gave barely the slightest hint of attention before turning back to their bottled beers and whisky sours.

He thought his concentration would break when he almost bumped into a woman with a bright green distended member bouncing around strapped to her forehead like she was some kind of X-rated unicorn. Then he reminded himself why he was there and turned his resolve back into steel.

Had they paid attention they would have seen the man in the long trench coat, a material not seen throughout the rest of the building. None of them would have seen him come in through the front door since he’d found a different way. They’d not noticed his bulky frame walking in a slightly odd angle as if there was something concealed. Still, in a place of uniqueness and crazy-arsed diversity (or was it deviancy?) then perhaps maybe no one would have asked questions.

In a swift move, he lost the trenchcoat, it floated delicately off to one side to be trampled into unknown parts of the already sticky dancefloor. Beneath the man wore a deep navy blue outfit, the texture like a thick wetsuit unlike anything else in the club that night. It was something different, something purposeful. This was not for pleasure, this was for business.

Just like the shotgun held in the man’s hands.

Before anyone even noticed it was there he pointed it directly upwards and fired. The thundering sound cracked through even the heavy music, which the man could have sworn was a punk remix of Call Me Maybe, a skipped beat turned to pure silence as the DJ caught wind. The entire club, jammed as it was, ground to an instant halt and paused with bated breath. Then the sprinklers came on and rain began to cascade down.

“Ladies and gents,” the man’s voice boomed in the sudden silence, “those of you wearing leather may want to leave before it shrinks and cuts off your blood supply. Those of you wearing PVC may just want to leave in shame.”

They ran, collectively and with intent. All of them racing for the front door in a stampede. The doors were wide open, he’d seen to that, the way out onto the street beyond was clear. The man was not interested in any of them, was not in fact there for any bad. He was the good guy and waited patiently for his quarry to come out of the VIP area. The door opened, he was there.

The huge frame came through the doorway, stooping a little so as not to bang his thick bald skull. Cyvus. A man they’d been hunting for almost two years, who still retained his scars crisscrossing across the pale flesh of his naked head from his last encounter with one of them. He was two years older, dressed in thick leathers; his mean eyes now flashing with recognition and the man was pleased to note, more than a little bit of fear.

“Hey Cyvus, what’s a creepy guy like you doing in a nice place like this?” the man asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before raising his shotgun once more, this time levelling it at the man’s chest and firing. A spray of buckshot was flung from the end in a cloud of smoke and fire – but before they reached Cyvus’ skin it had already slickened with a thin coating of unknown, but incredibly strong, metal. He rocked only slightly as the force of the shot connected, a tinny sound of keys in a metal bowl the only other indication of contact. He was unscathed but his look was venomous.

Cyvus turned and together with his two cronies who had exited the VIP area behind him they fled for the front door into the rapidly thinning crowd. The man cursed and held up a finger to a craftily disguised and undoubtedly very expensive earpiece.

“Airhead, he’s coming your way,” he barked, “Be ready, we be huntin’ wabbits.”

* * *

Subject: Dr Andrew Wells

Cunningham: So, Andrew, tell me about Janet Frasier. I understand you were close to her.

Andrew: We loved each other. Or at least I thought we did.

Cunningham: What do you mean?

Andrew Wells: She believed I betrayed her. When the Earthquake hit and we were trying to get out of the Temple she was...lost in all the confusion. The thing which spoke to her, which revived her – it told her we’d left her behind. And she believed it.

Cunningham: That angers you?

Andrew: Yes. No. Not anymore. I don’t know.

Cunningham: What else did she do to hurt you?

Andrew: I think by that point she was far more concerned about hurting everyone else. The woman who snuck her out of the morgue, she killed her. Beat her face in and left her body burning in a church to disguise her resurrection. Then, of course, there was the slaughtering of all the heads of the shadow organisation because she was convinced she had come to conquer.

Cunningham: Shadow Organisation? Like a secret society?

Andrew: Best we can figure it the Shadow originated as a group of people who learned of the Temple’s existence and of the power it contained. They became fanatical in their belief in the Temple and its meaning – and in the prophecies concerning the end times. When the Earthquake struck they believe that the first seal was broken and Janet’s arrival as a conquering figure convinced them she was indeed the First Horseman of the Apocalypse. She then proceeded to slaughter them, take over the remaining operations and enact a trigger they’d had inbuilt into computer code around the world. It caused a shutdown in global power that became known as the Blackout. Since Janet was… defeated...then the remaining fundamentalist members of the Shadow have been attempting to rebuild, to coalesce once more. We think they call themselves the New Order. Our goal has been to track them down and to replace out more about what their plans are.

(long pause)

Cunningham: Secret society?

* * *

“Airhead, he’s coming your way,” the annoying voice crackled directly into his ear, “Be ready, we be huntin’ wabbits.”

The sky above them rumbled dimly as Andrew lingered to one side. He heard the thundering gunshot from inside a moment earlier, saw the throngs of people bursting out screaming through the double doors and once again cursed the fact that Rick could not stick to even his cock-eyed plans. He’d also taken an annoying shine to code names.

“I see them,” he spoke into his earpiece, signalling to the others that he’d seen three gigantic human beings (and he used the term loosely) emerge from the front doors of the club. Two he vaguely recognised from blurry surveillance photos which were partly blurry due to keeping a distance and partly blurry because none of them had figured out how to use the lens zoom function properly. They could have of course used more productive means – say hire their professional investigators – but the Boss was somewhat paranoid these days. She was right to be.

When he’d first developed powers two years ago, he’d struggled to control them. Each burst of speed, the feeling of controlling the wind or of teleporting distances came with a deep-seated rage. It was a fuel tank he’d been willing to tap then, again and again, filled as he was the rage of loss. Slowly, however, that tank emptied and he found it was only through the stillness and the silence he could truly manifest his abilities. So he closed his eyes and he breathed.

When he opened them again he was half-way down the backstreet, right in between Cyvus’ two friends. The one on the left looked at him in utter shock, as if he couldn’t quite register through the thin haze of light steam coming from another vent that there was someone else beside him. The one on the right seemed to be expecting him, his first reaction was to swing a monstrous arm in a massive arc. Too wide to be honest, Andrew was already gone. The right hook connected with his friend’s face in a bone-crunching thud that sent him flying into the side of a huge dumpster.

Leftie went down like a sack of potatoes, while his friend rightie immediately turned to see Andrew standing several feet away. One hand reached inside his coat pocket and pulled a loaded pistol. Modified Glock, no doubt obtained very, very illegally. Only it wasn’t pointed quite at him, it was pointed down the alleyway at some of the fleeing people.

He turned, hearing the firing behind him and feeling drawn into that split-second in-between of each two points connecting. He appeared, grabbed onto one of the fleeing women, and disappeared in the blink of an eye. So close he felt the bullet whizz by them even as they entered back into the ether. The woman he left on a nearby rooftop, having landed hard on top of her as they entered back into reality. Rather than be thankful she’d given him a disgusted look that he registered only briefly before returning to battle.

By the time he made it back into the alleyway the man was well down it, nearing the end. He moved to teleport after him but a resounding crack and splinter of metal drew his attention. Before he could turn the full force of the front door, ripped from its hinges, was slammed into the side of him and sent him flying into a giant pile of bin bags full of bar garbage. He thanked God for his BioSuit, even if Rick had dyed it the colour of olive oil.

Cyvus stood over him for only a second, grinning and Andrew felt a momentary pang of fear. He knew what the villain was capable of, he’d seen him casually toss a car into a café full of people just to tie up one loose end. For that night though he seemed far more interested in escape, so simply smirked in a smarmy triumphant way and turned tail and ran.

“Rick, he’s getting away,” he groaned into his earpiece, picking something off of his suit that he hoped was just banana peel.

“Code names please.”

“Piss off…”

* * *

Subject: “Angel”

Cunningham: You have wings.

“Angel”: Correct.

Cunningham: So, if I understand correctly, you were originally a skeleton discovered in the ruins of the Temple?

“Angel”: I am told.

Cunningham: Then when you were brought back to the Manchester Offices you began to regenerate flesh and skin until you woke up...alive somehow.

“Angel”: Indeed.

Cunningham: And you also can bring people back from the dead?

“Angel”: It would seem. There are limitations.

Cunningham: And you sprouted wings when rescuing your co-worker Dr Louise Bryan from the collapsing Biogenesis Building?

“Angel”: Fortuitously.

Cunningham: I see. So...Angel...tell me, to who should I prescribe the anti-psychotics?

(pause, the sound of rustling feathers?!)

“Angel”: ‘To whom’

* * *

The heavens opened and wept above him. He felt his soft white feathers dampened by the rain. He did not like to fly in bad weather. A lack of thermals made it a lot of work. Besides, people around him had explained that flying around the centre of Manchester was probably not the best idea. Still, he managed to sneak away now and then.

He heard the gunshot ring out and the sounds of the fleeing stampede mingled with their cries of horror and shock. People were easily startled; although his newfound friends had managed to control most of their fear more effectively than he had expected. He had found humanity to be a dichotomy; a whole range of love, hate and anger all mingled into a somehow coherent yet chaotic being. He found it strange, frightening and yet sometimes beautiful.

His feet hit the roof material with an almost painful slap. The rain continued to slam down around him, creating small puddles that he stormed through as he made his way to the edge of the roof. He stood proud and tall, a pair of large white bird-like wings stretching out behind him almost ten feet tip-to-tip. The brilliant white BioSuit Rick had managed to obtain for him fit well, with un-zippable panels in the back for getting his wings through – and no sleeves. He’d gotten used to a lot of concepts (including pants), but he couldn’t stand confining his arms to sleeves – a useless invention.

Below him, the man they called Cyvus and his friend Andrew tangled as they had found themselves doing more and more often with the New Order these days. Ruth had provided intelligence that allowed them to track more and more of the old Shadow hideouts across the city over the previous few nights – and now they had unearthed their biggest quarry and the highest-ranking known leader.

Their battle had ended beneath him. As soon as Cyvus began to run down the alleyway towards the street he began to race across the roof. His wings created unnecessary drag behind him but he could hardly do anything about that. The edge was rapidly approaching and Cyvus still hadn’t slowed. So he did the first thing his instincts told him – he dove off the edge.

He opened his wings long enough to slow his descent and slammed into Cyvus side on. Both of them tumbled a mixture of metal, muscle and feathers that seemed to roll across the ground like in those animated programs Rick made him watch. They rolled together into the nearby taxicab, denting the passenger side door quite badly. The metal screeched beneath them as he felt one powerful hand clamp around his throat.

Cyvus held onto him with a crushing piston of a hand before he dragged Angel to his feet. They locked eyes and suddenly he slammed Angel down onto the hood of the car. He felt his nose break, a fresh spurt of his blood bursting hot and warm over his face. Dazed, Cyvus threw him to the ground.

* * *

Subject: Dr Cassandra “Sandy” Harris

(Note Patient’s arm on fire, but she is calm. Dr Cunningham most certainly is not.)

Cunningham: What the hell is that?

Sandy: That is fire. My element.

Cunningham: Could you please stop that?

(Sound of fire whooshing out)

Sandy: Look, it’s all based on science, right? Whoever the Temple Builders were they were smart. Every person on the planet has junk DNA, regions of genes which seem to code for nothing or used to code for traits we no longer have. The Temple Builders knew of an unknown form of radiation that specifically targeted certain regions of some people’s junk DNA, dormant genes which when activated grant the person power over an element. In my case, I control fire.

Cunningham: And the others?

Sandy: Rick controls water, Andrew controls air. Ben…controlled Earth. There seem to be multiple other versions. So far we’ve seen electricity and metal, I can only guess at any others.

Cunningham: Is that what Stacey Munro had?

Sandy: So this is the part where I spill my guts and talk about my feelings? Spank my inner child and call it a day? Look, doc, I’m sure you’re a fantastic shrink, you must have been to fall out with Rick – but there’s no great psychosis here. Stacey Munroe died in a bank robbery, blamed me and Rick then was resurrected as a weapon to break us apart. And when Rick killed her to save us all my only regret is that it couldn’t have been me. Happy now? Get to the root of what you’re looking for?

(long pause)

Sandy: What are you doing?

Cunningham (possible sarcasm): Writing ‘no great psychosis here’ in your notes.

* * *

Sandy heard the chaos going down through her head-set but only gave it half an ear. She took it all in but ignored every second as she threw the car into gear and sped out of her parking space, the tires screeching on the newly wet ground behind her.

“Oh for God’s sake, I am missing 100K Drop, let’s wrap this up quickly,” she heard Rick bark over the headset. “Hey, Flamer, if you’re there Bird-Boy and Airhead are down and Tin Man is scurrying West on Canal Street.”

“One more code name and I will shoot you,” Andrew retorted.

“I concur,” Angel agreed.

“Oh please, I’ve been shot before, that would be nothing,” Rick argued, “Like, maybe threaten to fill my Spotify with that indie punk crap you like so much.”

She ignored them all as she spun her car around the corner. The last time she’d been in any kind of ‘car chase’ she’d been forced to borrow a Nissan Micra which had wheezed its way into the battle rather than brought the funk. So she’d bought herself a sleek black Mazda MX-5 for just the occasion, making drifting around the corner past the take away somewhat more stylish.

She revved, the wheels screeching against the tarmac, one final turn and she was on the main street parallel to the Canal. At that hour there was already a lot of foot traffic so she slammed on the horn as she sped across the cobbles and down the Street after her prey. He hadn’t gotten far, he must have heard her coming.

Sandy’s power, her fire, had always been tied into one very particular emotion, a core emotion she’d been honing since she was little. Fury. And when she felt it bursting through her there was no red mist, no ‘loss of the senses’. Everything was sharper, clearer, ultra 4K HD clarity. Time was slower, each breath stretched into an eternity.

Despite everything Cyvus was running out of steam, his skin was still metallic but he was now limping. He sensed her behind him and feigned to the right. One flick of the steering wheel and the bonnet crumped against his back, sending him and the car piling right into some recently abandoned outdoor seating.

She saw him grip both sides of the engine, start to rise from beneath the car. He screamed with anger and the indignity of being almost defeated. It blinded him to the fact she was no longer in the car and he was staring at her fuel tank. A well placed bit of fire and he was sent flying back across the wall and slamming hard onto the barge of the now-defunct and closed night club directly on the canal side itself. The tattered remains of her new car slammed back to the ground.

Sometimes her anger made explaining things to the insurance companies quite difficult.

* * *

Subject: Dr Richard “Rick” Carter

Rick: Look, doc, there’s a reason I wanted it to be you that spoke to all of us.

Cunningham: Ruth hired me.

Rick: She only thinks it was her idea. I know you and despite your chronic misinterpretation of JJ Abrams TV series, you’re damn good at this. You’ve helped me before. But it’s going to take more than just that this time.

Cunningham: What do you mean?

(long pause – sigh)

Rick: Doc, we’re broken. Two years on and we’re all still stuck on Blackout night. Andrew can’t get over what happened to Janet no matter how much he loves Louise – and that will only end badly. Sandy’s as much of a damn mess as she ever was and her anger is only getting out of control. Ruth’s a shadow of who she was, Angel doesn’t know who the hell he is and me? Well, I’m resorting to speaking to a goddamn psychiatrist because I’m tired of waiting the hell around.

Cunningham: What are you waiting for?

Rick: The events we set into motion by opening that Temple – they didn’t die with Janet. She was only the first, White Horse, White Rider coming to conquer. We’re all just waiting for another, waiting for the Second, Red Horse, Red Rider. As messed up and as fractured as we are now, things will only get worse when It comes. We need to be stronger, we need to be able to work together, to resist it.

Cunningham: Why? What do you think it is?

Rick: War.

* * *

Sandy reached the barge first and the unconscious hulking form of the man they’d come to capture tangled amongst dust-laden broken wood; Rick, Andrew and Angel soon arrived to join her. Rick tutted when he saw her,

“Throw your car at him?” he queried. “Is that the best you could come up with?”

“Seems to have worked,” she pointed out, “And your brilliant idea would have been...?”

“Better.”

As they continued to bicker Andrew stepped towards the wreck of a man and regarded the situation with a frown. He reached out with one hand and grabbed a gigantic wrist in it before he disappeared in a puff of smoke along with their captive.

“Okay, in one swift stroke I’ve lost my car and committed yet another crime...so who are you to tell me whether my plan was a good or bad one?” Sandy snapped at him. “Huh, tell me, Rick...”

“See nobody uses the code-names, why the hell does nobody use the code-names?” Rick asked Angel.

“Because they are tacky,” Angel offered.

“Oh the man who thought the Daredevil movie was the finest Marvel had to offer is going to give me tips?”

Throughout all of this none of them had noted that the ‘guests’ at the various nightclubs had come to see them, gathering around in a crowded semi-circle overlooking them from the other side of the canal with a mixture of awe and drunken stares. Well, they had to face their public at one time or another.

“Hello people,” Rick greeted, “I know we’ve interrupted your night, shooting up your club and all – but we had a very good reason. You see that big oaf is our link to a very bad group of people. Think ‘Masters of Evil’ without the campness.”

“Dude...are you wearing spandex?” one helpful customer asked.

“We’re super-heroes, not eighties superheroes,” Rick answered. “Anyone else?”

The van screeched up to a stop behind their crowd. Andrew flicked open the back where a large, now finally bound, hulk of Cyvus lay in the back. They rushed up the plank back onto the main street and Angel was the first to duck in, tucking his wings behind him neatly as he did so. Sandy stepped in next, turning back to Rick who bowed to the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen...it’s time to leave,” he explained, “Please go back to drinking and when the police get here – just tell them some pissed off cat made the damage.”

He stepped into the van, shutting the door behind him. Andrew peeled out of the spot and headed back onto the main city streets steering a course for home.

“Pissed off cat?” Sandy echoed questioningly.

“You know me, can’t help blaming…”

“You can stop now.”