Anthology Two Presents

Marshal
"Confession"
By Aaron Baugh

The sound of the door closing behind him reverberated through the rest of the enclosure and his skull.  He sat down on the thin cushion that decorated the built-in bench.  'I shouldn't be doing this', he thought to himself for the third time in as many seconds.  He began to rise to leave, but the sliding sound of wood on wood made him drop back onto the cushion.

"Speak, child, and confess your sins for redemption and the forgiveness of God."  The voice was young, coming from the shadowy silhouette of the priest beyond the tightly woven screen that separated them.  Seconds passed.  "Are you there?" asked the young priest with a light note of concern.

"Yeah, uhm, yes, Father.  I am.  Ah, I don't know where to begin, really," and CJ Dawkins could hear the smile on the other side of the screen.

"Don't worry, my son.  Begin where you like, and leave the rest to God."

CJ took a deep breath, licked dry lips.  "First off, I'm not really Catholic.  I mean, I was raised non-denominational, but you know, I haven't been in a long, long time.  So here I am, because, well, I need someone to listen.  I think.  Anyway, here goes.

"See, I'm a cop.  A detective, and for a while, things have been different for me."

"How have they been different, and for how long?"

"Oh, man," he let out a breath.  "Six, eight months.  I haven't been a detective for long, but I've been a cop for eight years.  I didn't really know what I wanted out of school, and I got my degree in Political Science, thought I wanted to be President someday, but a summer job in the governor's office nixed that plan.  So I applied to become a cop, maybe FBI, ATF, DEA, eventually, or something like that.  But I got on with the city, and things were great.  I had a good job, I liked it, I was helping people, and I got married. We had a baby, a little girl named Emma."  He smiled at the memory of his little girl, chubby and happy in the way babies should be, loved and beautiful because of it.  His eyes began to water, and he continued before his voice betrayed his emotion.

"But then Emma died, some kind of respiratory thing that the doctors couldn't fix or didn't know about.  She was four days shy of her second birthday, and my wife, Vicky, she couldn't take it.  So she started drinking, she was depressed. . . .hell, so was I, but I had my job, and she had stopped before her last semester of college to have Emma and stay with her, because she knew that was important, both to me and to the baby.  She didn't have anything to fall back on, and when I couldn't take it anymore, I confronted her about it, and," he stopped, swallowing to clear the lump in his throat that threatened to break out into a sob.

"Please, continue," said the priest.  "It sounds like you need to get this out of you, into the open.  Please, go on."

CJ nodded, a futile gesture to one who couldn't see him, but he obeyed.  "So she left. Didn't want anything, I found out weeks later, when the paralegal showed up with papers for me to sign.  It was quick, really.  We split the bank account down the middle, she already had her car, and I packed up what she wanted and forwarded it to her mother's place.  And that was it," he said as his arms spread apart, elbows on his knees.  His hands came together in a small clap of finality.

"So I had my job, and not much else, really.  And I threw myself into it, full force, working every bit of overtime that came my way because I didn't have much else to do. The department had counselors available, no cost, private, all that, so I started seeing one of them regularly.  Twice a month, like clockwork, and it all helped.  I avoided booze, drugs, all that.  Things were definitely on the up and up.  I made sergeant, and had just taken the detective's exam, moving up quick.  Lots of guys were retiring, and there were spots opening up.  I had my time in, and everything was lined up.  Until last April."  The heaviness of his voice caused the priest to sit up straighter, listen more intently.  It prompted the inevitable query.

"What happened last April?"

"I respond to a call in the Valley, down where the tech sector is king, you know what I mean, some bio-research firm, I know what they do exactly, but it isn't really important to the story here.  So I get there, first on the scene, backup on the way but five minutes away because of a big fire on the upper west side and construction on the Coffey Bridge. So I go in because shots were reported fired in the area.  I see a dead security guard at the gate, which is smashed all to hell, and I creep in closer, not waiting for backup because whoever did this could kill more people in five minutes, right?"  A deep breath.  "I get into the compound, and its like something out of a movie.  Lab benches, mixes and chemicals of all shapes and sizes, and I hear crashing and breaking glass, so I stop and I wait, kneeling next to one of these benches.  About that time I hear sirens coming, and know that my backup is on the way.  Suddenly this guy comes staggering my way, in one of those suits that looks like a bio-warfare suit.  But there's blood everywhere, and I can tell that this guy has been gut-shot.  Hell of a way to die, bleeding to death.  Takes a while, too.  He's holding this thing that looks like a jar of Play-Doh."

"Play-Doh?"

"Yeah, Play-Doh.  A glass jar of Play-Doh, but it's this weird, metallic blue color, and he sees me, sees my badge, and moves towards me, but collapses.  I go over to him, and kneel down beside him to take off his suit so he can breathe.  There's a super-sharp pain from behind me, and I feel it before I hear the report of the gun.   Whatever it was, it was large caliber.  I fall face down, and I can't feel my legs all of a sudden.  I manage to roll over, somehow, God knows how, and I see two men, both Caucasian, both tall, slim, wearing dark suits.  One is holding a gun, and its pointed at me.  The other has what looks like a metal suitcase.  I squeezed the trigger, hit both of them a couple times, at least, and I get myself up onto my stomach before I pass out.  Completely."

CJ paused for breath, focusing on a carving of an angel inside the confessional, but not seeing it at all.

"What happened next?" asked the priest.

CJ smiled.  "I woke up four days later, and everyone wants to know what happened, from me!  I'm the one who's been in the coma for a few days!  Why are they asking me?  So then everything starts to get a little bit clearer, but some weird shit happens first.  The doctors tell me that my spine has regenerated, and that for some reason my body has actually increased in muscle mass.  Once they mentioned it, I did feel stronger, but so damn hungry that I could barely move.  I wolfed down four full meals before I felt better, but the doctors wanted to keep me for more tests, all that kind of thing.  Long story short, I got out of the hospital and started as a detective a month later.  Now things get interesting."

"Whatever that blue thing that the man in the lab had, was now in me.  It was some kind of organism that had been found or engineered, or whatever, but it lived inside me now, and it was responsible for my quick healing, and my muscles, and the reason I had to eat like a horse four or five times a day.  But it could do other stuff, too.  I didn't need to sleep anymore.  Not a wink.  And it could come out.  It took a long time, like it had to trust me or something.  It could come out from its place on my back and cover me.  I could breathe and move fine, and it even let me eat.  It was so weird, but you and I know that things like that are possible.  We've had metahumans around for years, and, well, now I was one of them.  Other things kept coming up.  I knew what I could do, sort of, but the suit, I call it a suit, could let me do other things.  I could walk up walls, not get
hurt too badly by punches, all kinds of shit, er, stuff.  Sorry Father.  Those men I shot, they disappeared.  Not literally, I mean, but they disappeared from the morgue.  All the records vanished.  I think some kind of agency was involved, some black ops stuff from the government.  I don't know, but I've got an identity now, an alter ego.  The suit is like another part of me now, like my leg or whatever.  I can use it without thinking about it. See, I think that scientist wasn't dead yet, and he put whatever that stuff was into the hole in my back.  Maybe as a dying gesture of gratitude, or just to get rid of it.  I don't really know.  But the things I can do now, they really blow me away.  I don't really know what I should do."

Silence.

"Father?"

Silence.

CJ knocked on the wood holding the screen in place.  "You there?"

"Ah, yes.  I am."  Sounds of swallowing.  "I don't really know what to tell you.  I must say that is a very. . . .well. . . you have the example of the other heroes of our age to follow, Detective.  Millennium Man in Australia, even the old timers like the Four, Hero, The Night, Black Shadow, and all the rest."

CJ smiled.  The priest was talking like a fanboy.  "Every day somebody gets screwed. Lots of people.  Cops try to do what they can, but they can't be everywhere all the time, and the justice system tries its best, but it isn't perfect.  Hell, father, you should know from the history of the church that a little ass-kicking and the fear of God or something equally un-holy can do wonders."

A cough.  "Well, I suppose, but do you think that you should be the one to take matters into your own hands?"

CJ paused in thoughtful silence.  "I'm not sure, but I know where to start.  I'm not certain if this is what's right for me, Father."

"Nor am I, child, but it was your fate to become what you are now, and God has decreed it.  You should consider it long and hard, before making a choice like this.  You open yourself to detractors who know nothing of you, and your actions will speak louder than any amount of words.  If you choose to do this, do it well.  If you choose to mete out justice, temper your anger and rage with mercy.  Go with God, child, and may His peace follow you and your decisions."

"Thanks Father, you've been a great listener.  I really needed this."

Father Anthony waited until he heard the confessor leave the chamber, then stood and opened his door, casting about for the man whose secrets he had heard.  He heard only echoing footsteps ring throughout the cavernous church, and he sat back down in his half of the confessional, thinking long and hard about raiding the sacramental wine.

The walk home from the Catholic Church wasn't very long, only about seven blocks or so.  Just enough to stretch the legs and enough to clear his head.  Dark clouds gathered over the city, heavy with rain.  That was commonplace here in the Pacific Northwest. Petersburg, Oregon was initially a trading town, founded by Russians who came down the Alaskan coast, looking to trade furs along the ready-made highways that were the rivers, heading towards the Pacific.

Two rivers, the Sasha and Beaver, hit the Pacific only a few miles apart, making a perfect place for a city.  Now, with the urban and suburban sprawl that accompanied modern cities, the two rivers marked the north and south boundaries of the old city.  That was where CJ lived, and despite its ghetto reputation, it wasn't a bad place to live. Everything he needed, from stores to restaurants, was in walking distance.  Besides, the reputation kept the rent low.  Still, CJ had no less than three deadbolts and a heavy chain on his door.  No reason to tempt fate.

As he undressed, he caught the reflection of his naked back in the door-mounted full-length mirror.  Between that one and the smaller one above the sink, he had been able to see the lump of blue 'stuff' that made him what he was today.

He hadn't told the priest everything.  He hadn't told him how he had to eat a little more, or how annoying it was to be aware of another creature living inside your skin.  It had emotions, too.  Base emotions, of course, no actual communication, but it seemed to be the embodiment of flight or fight instincts.  Instinct was a better word for it.  No reason to cloud the pure, unadulterated feeling that he felt from it.  Anger, rage, the undeniable urge to do, that was what it conveyed to him.  It seemed to hate vacillation, to hate fence-sitting and actual thought.  When things got tight and CJ felt the adrenaline pumping, 'it'
popped out, and he became Marshal.

For all of its independent feeling, though, he could still control it.  Sometimes he didn't know if he told it what he wanted, or if it told him, but when he needed it to happen a certain way, it always happened that way.  When it came out, and covered him, he was dark blue.  He had stood there, in the mirror, looking through this stuff, breathing through this stuff, and he couldn't tell that it was there.  His sight was unchanged, but he couldn't see his own face.  It was damn freaky, that's for sure.

The dark blue had been too dull, though, and CJ had spent hours in front of the mirrors, concentrating on changing his appearance.  The thing had complied, and he had run through every part of the rainbow he could imagine.  Violet body, red head, green arms, white legs, and pink fingers had been particularly shocking.  He had blended into the color of the bathroom tile, even mimicking the grout marks.  Briefly, he had even made himself reflective, like the mirrors, but that had been too weird, so he stopped doing that.

Eventually, he settled on the original dark blue, but a stripe of deep gold went around his body, a stripe to mark the outer lines.  It went over his forehead, down the sides of his face, over the shoulders, and down the arms.  From there, it was along the bottom of his arms, to his armpits, then down the outside of the legs and feet and then inside again, to his groin.  He thought that he looked pretty damn cool.

The lump didn't seem to care.

After the color experiments, it was time to see what he could do.  Forming simple objects with his hands was simple, as it only took a thought.  Suddenly, he was like the Terminator from the movie, altering his shape (his arms, anyway) to make all kinds of tools.  When he grabbed the shampoo bottle from the shower ten feet away with a whipcord-thick tendril, he couldn't help but get excited.

When he ate a steak without metal utensils and only his own altered fingers to make a knife and fork, he got more excited, and cutting through the table with increased strength, no pain, and a razor-sharp forearm was such a stress reliever that he vowed to buy another table at goodwill to chop up when he was bored.

Further experiments on successive nights gave him more insights to what he could and couldn't do.  He didn't get tired easily, and he didn't have to sleep.  He was stronger, but not in the throw cars around sense.  Instead, he could merely lift one end with one hand and little effort.

A foray into a burning building as a covert assist to firefighters let him know that smoke didn't faze him.  Even though he couldn't feel it, the membrane that covered his nose and mouth filtered out all the bad stuff.  Heat wasn't a problem, either.  Walking through a sheet of flame was only mildly uncomfortable, and a rafter that fell eight feet to hit him on the head knocked him down, but there was no pain, and no swelling.  If he had been braced and expecting it, he probably wouldn't have been knocked down like he was.

But the first time that he moved out to take matters into his own hands had been liberating, and he certainly didn't tell the priest about that night.

Ed Gibson had been a city employee for years, working with this mayor or that city councilman on various odd jobs.  He was regarded as an expert on city legal matters, and had been in the corner for the police and public safety departments when lean budget years threatened key programs and initiatives.

Nobody thought that he was a pederass.

A year-long investigation produced several zip disks of child pornography that he had stashed away in his second home in Arizona.  Lengthy release red tape had prevented a swift trial, and a pair of slick lawyers had gotten the charges all but dropped.

He went to trial, alright, but ended up with probation and time served.  All that time, the investigation hadn't caught up to his real-life perpetration of the pictures he had on his computer.

They were twins, his nieces, in fact, who were staying with him for an extended two-week vacation while their mother (his sister) went through a messy divorce with husband number two, who wasn't the girls' father.

Seven years old and freckled, the twins hadn't been prepared for the onslaught from ol' Uncle Ed.

Allegations followed, as did the investigations.  CJ hadn't been in the middle of it.  He was Homicide, and the special services people handled sex crimes.  But he heard about it. CJ had friends who knew guys in that section.  Those guys talked, so even though it was third hand info, CJ knew it was good.

Details sickened him, as had the snail-like pace of the investigation.  The same lawyers who bailed his ass out on the porn charges came up to bat again, and it was in month seven, when Ed's sister, tear-streaked and makeup-heavy, blurted out in court that someone should just kill the bastard and be done with it.

Outburst equaled mistrial, and the DA's hope of nailing the bastard for good.

CJ had actually been there that day, and when he looked at Gibson, all calm in his gray suit, the thing inside him pulsed, and Dawkins just held off, assuring himself that the time would come.

Gibson was found dead in his home the next day.  There was a fist-sized hole in his head where his face used to be, and his genitals were partially mutilated.  Judging by the amount of blood loss, CSU determined that the wound to his groin took place up to an hour before he passed away.

The actual night at Gibson's home went something like this:  CJ, as Marshal, had deftly removed the attic vent cover and gained entrance to Gibson's home.  Finding the stairwell that dropped into the attached garage was simple, and the door from there into the house hadn't been locked.

As a product of an over-entertained society, CJ had thought that he would have some snappy line that would make Gibson shit himself in fear or regret everything he'd done. Something.  But as he stood there at the end of Gibson's bed and looked at him as he slept, he found that his repertoire was woefully inadequate.  He had nothing, so he went for simple and direct.

"Wake up!" he had shouted, surprised to hear his voice altered, deeper, and amplified. Hell, something else the suit could do.  But its effect was telling.  Gibson sat straight up, like he'd been shocked.  CJ was surprised to see the revolver in his right hand, and even more surprised when Ed Gibson put three rounds in him, closely grouped, in the center of his chest.

CJ hit the ground hard, and was still getting over the shock when Gibson turned on a bedside lamp and moved to stand over him.  "What the fuck are you?  Who are you?" asked Gibson, as he stood there in his pajamas.

CJ didn't answer, but he stood, then, surprising Gibson enough that CJ's swipe at the gun worked, sending it to the far side of the bed and out of reach.

"You did it, didn't you?" asked CJ.  "You raped them, and you got off for it."

Gibson took a step back, fearful.  "No."

Something quivered inside of CJ.  By some leap of intuition, he realized that Gibson was lying.  He could hear it, the differences in the lie.  He could see, he noticed, the individual hairs that poked through the gaps in Gibson's shirt.  He had been able to see
just fine the whole time, even in the dark, even in the pitch darkness, with no moonlight or anything.

Gibson made a move to retrieve his gun, and CJ cut him off, taking a step forward.  "You don't deserve prison," he heard himself say.  "But you do deserve this."  CJ's left hand formed into a curved scythe, sharp along both long edges, and he swiped at Gibson's groin, severing one testicle and part of his phallus.

Gibson went to his knees, and his hands went to his crotch, trying in vain to stem the bloody tide that came forth.  CJ/Marshal stood there and watched him cry for fifteen solid minutes.  Without any more words, he drew back his right arm, made a fist with small spikes crowning the knuckles, and punched through Gibson's skull, cracking the solid wooden closet door behind him.

Even though he stepped outside the law, CJ knew that it wouldn't be the last time.  Even if he was a cop, the system that withheld CJ Dawkins from doing right didn't touch Marshal.  The entire city would begin to fear him, and rightfully so.
 

Red light alternated with blue light, reflecting off the glass that remained in the old windows.  The abandoned factory was ground zero for a scene taken right out of hell. Seven children, all between six and twelve, all nude, lay in a row on the concrete floor. Their corpses were on old mattresses and wads of dirty cloth, scavenged from wherever. Each of the children were mutilated, each one differently and each in a way that was uniquely grotesque.  One had no left arm, and a hole where its diaphragm should be.  The little boy next to her was missing half his face.  Another had only one leg, and one arm. Her jaw was split down the center, the skin raw, pale from blood loss.

Worse yet, there were more mattresses around the warehouse floor.  Twenty in all.  All were bloodstained, but none held children.

Detective CJ Dawkins flashed his badge to the uniform working the line, who raised the ubiquitous yellow tape to let him by.  He caught the scent of blood, even from this distance, and the lump of blue flesh in the small of back quivered.  It always did.

CJ noticed the photographers, noticed the scene, the uniformed cops on the fringes, the CSU guys doing their job.  The acidic tang of fresh vomit was in the air, too, and a young uniform leaned against the wall while his partner, a brunette, held a plastic bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.  The detective walked on, towards the epicenter of a parent's worst nightmare.

Ramirez fell into step beside him, like the two had entered together.  Jorge Ramirez had put in his years, and had been in the Academy one year behind CJ.  Jorge was only a sergeant, though, but had the knack of being where the action was.

"CJ."

"Jorge."

With the greetings out of the way, Jorge flipped open his notepad and began rattling off the events of the night.  "About midnight, the security guard on duty reported screaming coming from this warehouse, number 8.  He called, and when the first black and white rolled up, they found this."  He swept his hand to indicate the horrific scene before them. "Discovering officers were Delany and Martin."

"Which one puked?"

"Martin.  This is day six for him.  Poor bastard."

"Right.  Where's Lenny?"

Jorge pointed to an aging bald man in a black windbreaker with CSU in bright yellow stenciled on the back.  Lenny was just straightening from loading the first child's body into a bag and zipping it up.

"Okay, Bob.  Take this one away," said the older man as CJ stepped up beside him.  Both men were silent, each looking at the scene before them.  "Christ."

CJ nodded.  "What can you give me so far, Lenny?"

A shrug.  "Not sure yet.  I haven't seen anything like this before.  Nothing.  I once saw this salesman, a big guy, torn up by a pack of dogs.  No part of him bigger than a breadbox.  But this is worse, man.  Much worse."

CJ sighed.  "But?"

"Hell, I don't know, man.  I'll know more after the postmortem, but all of these wounds are bad news.  That salesman?  Ragged edge wounds everywhere from teeth and claws. These are similar, like a dog six foot tall with teeth four inches long, if there is such a thing.  I can't say what the fuck was going on, though.  Maybe these kids were the lucky ones?"

A nod.  "You aren't ruling out rape?"

"Not until I get the postmortem.  But I don't think so.  This girl had her leg ripped from its socket, but whatever did it left her vaginal area unmolested.  There's no tearing, no secretions, nothing to indicate sex or penetration.  The rest are the same, none of the girls penetrated, none of the boys apparently molested."

"So maybe they were saving her and the others for later."

"After they were dead and mutilated?  Sadist necrophiliacs?  Jesus.  I've never even heard of that."

CJ shrugged.  "Plenty of fucked-up records to bear it out, Lenny."  He knelt beside the next child, a blonde with long hair.  She had part of her face gone, but the one eye that remained was locked in a terrible expression of fear forever.  He felt angry, then.  A small nugget of rage that sizzled in his stomach until he wanted to just throw back his hands and scream and rage at the clouds for no reason.  Someone had killed these children.  All twenty of them.  Some poor bastard in the department was going to have to notify the parents of these children.  CJ just hoped that it wasn't him.  The longer he stared, though, the angrier he got.  But then, there was something else.  He could feel the stirring of the thing in his back.  It usually made its presence known when CJ got excited or went to some emotional extreme or another.  There was little he could do to stop it, but changing his mind usually worked.  For some reason, thinking the tune and lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner usually worked.  But he saw something on the little girl's face. Something out of place. . .

A small bit of green, though, caught his eye.  It wasn't spinach green, either, or bright at all.  It was drab, almost sickly green.  And whatever it was, it moved.  Slightly, so slightly that CJ might have chalked it up to being wierded out by the situation had it not just moved again.  Then.  There, just now.  His back pulsed again.  Then again, still feeding off the last pangs of anger.

'O-o say can you see...' went the tune in CJ's mind.  He hoped it would help.

His finger touched the green speck, and he straightened, like his spine had been electrified.  It was trying to get out, right now, right in front of the other cops.  CJ pressed his hand to where it lay embedded in his flesh, and could feel the tendrils begin to press out, to cover his body and make him into Marshal.  But he couldn't let it happen, not here.

Standing, he felt his head swim, and he immediately began to calm back down.  The symbiote calmed, too, though it still was on edge.  How some part of him could feel independently of him escaped the detective, but anything was possible.

"CJ, you okay?"  It was Lenny, steadying CJ with a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah.  I think so.  Yeah.  I need some air," he said as he moved towards the door.  He had seen enough, and the CSU reports would hit him before the coroner's report. Tomorrow would be a busy day, but he had a reserve of adrenaline to work off, and a whole city full of bastards to work it off on.

The figure was blue, large, and gold stripes outlined the basic shape, giving a distorted image of a moving chalk outline, if the outline was made in bright yellow, that is.  There were no eyes, no openings for mouth or nose, and the man beneath that exterior loved the image it gave him.

Two punks lay below him in the street, their skulls cracked open.  The third, the one actually attempting the rape while the others held the victim down, hung by one dislocated arm, twelve stories up.  Marshal held him there with one arm; the rest of his limbs occupied in keeping him adhered to the side of the building.  The poor punk had gone limp, muttering prayers that nobody would answer.  Already, the stench of his waste filled the air from when he had voided his bowels in abject terror.

"Should I let you live?" asked Marshal sedately, like he had just asked the guy about how pleasant the temperature was.

The punk whimpered, then nodded vigorously.

"I wouldn't move.  This is my weak arm," he said, shaking the punk a little bit.  Wide eyes were his answer, and he briefly considered letting the kid go, to spread the word and increase Marshal's notoriety even more.  Then, of course, CJ dismissed that thought and held the punk out over the alley, directly over the bodies of his erstwhile partners.

His supernatural hearing picked up a crashing window and a scream, somewhere to the south.  The punk in his grip forgotten, Marshal leapt from his position on the side of the building towards the building opposite the alley.  He released the punk in mid-flight.

Running was always liberating.  It was even more so when you did it at twenty miles an hour, without fatigue, along the top of tenement houses.  A few long strides would take him to the edge, where a gratifying leap would end in a light fall onto asphalt or gravel, and lead to more running.  Not having to sleep was one of CJ's favorite side effects.  It was amazing how much time you lost when sleeping, but the inability to completely and blissfully clear one's mind, if even for a few hours, was a major mark in the con column. Even now, CJ's mind led him back to the warehouse, to each of the seven faces in turn, trying to find a connection.  Two were white, two black, one Hispanic, one Asian, and one middle eastern.  Equal opportunity bastards.  That was a laugh.  But it eliminated a category of profiling.  The ages, all within a six-year gap, led to more appalling realizations.  Someone was taking children from their homes in the middle of the night. None of those kids had been dirty, or stank of the street.  That meant baths and someone who cared enough to make them take baths, no matter how much they hated it.  Which
meant that someone cared.  Someone out there.  Someone...

Police responding to the breaking and entering found a young man alone in the center of the apartment's living room.  The tenant was next door with a friend while police investigated.  Her story was that she heard the breaking of her window, screamed, and locked herself in the bathroom.  She heard the intruder searching around, then a series of crashes mixed with more screams.  When it got really quiet, she ventured out, screamed at the sight before her, then ran next door.  Next thing she knew, the police showed up.

The young man had each of his limbs broken in two places, as was his back and neck.  In the struggle, the refrigerator had been opened, and the single word 'Marshal' had been written on the burglar's shirt in mustard.

City Hall was the center of a maelstrom of press agencies, vans, reporters, and camera crews.  The Mayor, Police Commissioner, Deputy Mayor, and even the Lieutenant Governor, a former mayor himself, stood among other city officials behind the podium.

As CJ walked closer to the steps, he had to flash his badge and ID to get past the police-manned barricades.  The conference was already underway.

"- we are not prepared at this time to discuss the ramifications of a violent vigilante loose in our city," said the mayor, holding his hands up to try and forestall questions.  "What we can say is that anyone with information pertaining to this 'Marshal' should come forward at once and let the state and city authorities deal with it, or him, or her. Whatever."

One reporter got his voice above the rest of his peers.  "Mayor, what about offers by Nighthound and Chieftain of L.A., and All-Star of Seattle to come and hunt down Marshal?"

The police commissioner stepped to the microphones.  "First off, let's not give it credence by referring to it by name.  Although we appreciate the offers by these other superhumans, we cannot and will not condone their operation in Petersburg.  We can ill
afford to bear and repair the damage that would surely be caused by superhuman combat."

"So, then, commissioner," intoned another reporter, picking up on the blood in the water, "you admit that Marshal is indeed a superhuman, and not simply a vigilante or vigilante group?"

The mayor scowled at the commissioner and lightly pushed him out of the way.  "The Lieutenant Governor has promised the aid of all state authorities, even including elements of the National Guard, should the situation demand it."

"So, you're preparing for anything?"  Another reporter.

"Yes, we will be vigilant for any more acts, and if we catch this guy in the act, we'll be sure to act decisively and bring him in."

CJ harrumphed.  The mayor acting decisively would happen only when everybody and their brother were leaning on him.  Since CJ didn't see a representative of the Federal government, the heavy pressure wasn't yet there.

Two weeks later, Detective Dawkins eased into a booth across from Jorge Ramirez.  A few minutes later, just after the waitress had filled CJ's coffee cup, Lenny came in and sat down next to CJ.

"Hell of a day," said Lenny as he shook water from his raincoat.  Jorge mumbled agreement, and the three men ordered their lunches.

"More Feds poking around than usual.  Did you guys catch the briefing on that last week?" asked CJ, addressing Jorge.

Ramirez nodded.  "Yeah, the Feebs are getting thick.  I swear we've got the entire graduating class assigned to this city.  Lots of Feebs, and not a one of them with a brain in their whole head."

CJ smiled.  "They're looking for Marshal?"  He thrilled inside, trying to keep calm and not betray the fact that he was talking about himself.  Alternate identities were something he had little experience with.  That he'd managed to keep mum over the past few months was nothing short of a small miracle.  But the killing had increased.  He'd left several people alive since taking things into his own hands, but recently, a subconscious urge led him to be extremely vicious when dealing with the dregs.  The blue lump seemed to almost take over sometimes, and though it always did what he wanted, sometimes he felt that it was making him do what it wanted.

Jorge sighed.  "Yeah.  Part of me hopes they come up empty.  I've had more traffic stops than anything else here recently.  It's like people are afraid to be violent."

"But that's good, right?  Less crime?"

Lenny spoke.  "Well, maybe.  Depends on how you look at it.  People ruled by fear are people ruled by fear.  And it's not like this guy Marshal saves little old ladies from getting hit by buses.  I've seen what he does.  Corpses with holes in their head, their
chests, hearts ripped out.there was one guy hung with his own intestines."

"Jesus."  CJ didn't know if he or Jorge said it.  But what he did know was that he hadn't done that.  Punched through heads and chests, yeah, but not ripping out hearts and strangling people with their own intestines.  He didn't do that.  Or rather, he hoped he never would.

Lenny made a dismissive gesture.  "Not that I mind the work, but it'd be nice to have a simple gunshot wound or something.  I hate to look around a scene to complete the stiff's collection of body parts.  But we found more kids torn up.  First time in a couple of months."

CJ paid attention.  "More kids?  Like the warehouse?"

Lenny nodded.  "Yeah.  But not as many this time, thank God.  I don't know what I'd do if I saw who or what was doing that to kids.  Kids.  Man, I just don't know."

An awkward moment of silence was broken by the arrival of their food.  Lenny got the tuna melt, and Jorge went with the cheeseburger.  CJ himself tied into his hot ham and cheese and all was silent except for the sounds of men chewing and swallowing.

"You know," said Jorge, finally wiping away the smear of mustard that had been at the corner of his mouth since his first bite, "I hear that All-Star's been around."

"Really?" asked CJ, again trying to downplay his interest.  He tried to hide it behind a drink of his coffee.

"Yeah.  South part of town.  I heard it from a guy in the ninth."

"Reliable?"

Jorge shrugged.  "Sure.  A couple of years on the job, but he's got no reason to lie to me." He picked up his sandwich.

"All-Star on the south side.  Have those guys from L.A. shown up?"

"Nah," said Lenny.  "Commissioner and the Mayor are all over them.  Those guys love the limelight."

"Who, Nighthound or the Commissioner?"

Jorge laughed around his bite as Lenny smiled.  "The 'heroes'," he said, his voice thick with disdain.  "They're almost as bad as this Marshal guy.  Or thing.  Whatever."

"How so?" asked CJ.  "Nighthound shot a guy a few months ago, and Chieftain put a few guys in the hospital.  Nothing like Marshal."

"Well, no heads coming off bodies or anything, but still, they have the same root.  Both go overboard with violence."

The blue wad in his back throbbed, and CJ knew that it was in response to the electric pulse of anger in his mind.  "Overboard, huh?  Seems like most of these guys that've been hammered deserved it."

Jorge looked at Lenny, then back to CJ.  "The rapists and murderers, sure.  Especially that pederass Gibson."  Lenny nodded.  "But the B&E cases?  Simple thieves and junkies?  Are they next on this guy's list?  I mean, they're criminals, and we took our
oaths, but putting a guy behind bars and putting a guy in the morgue with most of his bones pulverized are two really different things."

CJ drank his coffee.  "You're right.  But I'd hate to be around if these others corner him. If he gets all postal on junkies and rapists, what'll he do to these guys?"  For the first time in the conversation, CJ had asked a question that he didn't already know the answer to.