"Five minutes."

Three uniformed cops exchanged quizzical glances as they regarded the coarse gray-speckled black hair on the back of their superior's head. The detective turned, and the confusion promptly dropped from the three officers' faces.

"I'm not back five fuckin' minutes and I already got to deal with this shit."

Ron Middleton lit a cigarette with shaky fingers.

"Shoulda just fuckin' stayed in Pacific City."

"Meat wagon's on the way, sir," the young man whose badge identified him as Turner reported.

"Wonderful," Middleton murmured through the end of his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke into the warm summer night. It curled about his face for a moment before a soft, arid breeze carried it towards the city's rooftops. "Is forensics here yet?"

"Sir."

Middleton turned, regarding the approaching figure. A woman. A black woman. The detective almost smiled to himself.

"Ron Middleton," he offered warmly, extending his hand. It was taken promptly and firmly. The woman's own hands were smooth and dry.

"Maggie Pierce," she smiled. "I'm your CSI."

"I don't believe we've worked together before..." Middleton began, all at once forgetting about the mutilated bodies smeared across the now-inactive 36th Street.

"I'm new," Maggie said, still smiling politely. "I transferred from Melbourne a little less than a month ago. I believe you were on your sabbatical at the time...?"

"Something like that." Middleton turned slowly towards the crime scene, staying close to Maggie as they walked. "So Melbourne, huh? What, did you want to get in on some of the real action here in HC?"

"I guess you could say that. I had a concentration in science hero studies at university, and I thought my skills might be put to better use in a city with greater super activity."

"Hm. Well that certainly is admirable of you. Shit, we normally have to beg people to work on these cases. Gets ugly sometimes. Real ugly," Middleton said.

"I read the articles about the murder of Raymundo Zuleta a few months back. I put in for a transfer not long after his funeral, actually. The Spyder's one of the reasons I chose to come to Harbour City."

Middleton laughed.

"Now that is definitely a new one, Maggie." They stopped and Middleton waved grandly at the large, cordoned-off section of street in front of them. "But, if you want him, you got him."

Maggie paused and gulped visibly as she took in the grisly scene. Several bodies. Approximately five, though that number was not at all easily verified. They would probably have to wait to count the bones.

"Welcome to Harbour," Middleton cooed. He let out a large puff of smoke.

"Jesus," Maggie said, producing a pair of latex gloves from her shoulder bag. She snapped one about her wrist and bent down slowly amidst the carnage. Middleton watched her with keen interest, not all of which was of a professional nature. It had been a long time since a woman had caught more than a passing fancy from Ron Middleton's eye. Least of all, a fellow cop. He was intrigued.

"Detective," Maggie said, not looking back at Middleton, who was shaken from his momentary daze. She was moving slowly through the bodies, studying the pavement with an almost confused expression. She finally half-turned back towards Middleton, who raised his eyebrows at her knowingly. "Has anybody touched-?"

"No, ma'am," Middleton interrupted, anticipating her question. Maggie Pierce glanced back at the crime scene, then turned fully to face Ron Middleton.

"Then how in the hell...?"

"It's how we found them," Middleton said simply. "Bitch, ain't it?"

Maggie's eyes grew large and her head lolled a bit on her shoulders. She exhaled sharply and marched back to Middleton's side.

"So tell me, detective," she began, folding her arms. "Does the Spyder always drain the blood from his victims?"

...comeintomyparlor...

Artifice Comics Presents
The Spyder: Nostromo #1
"Drainers"
By Bill Castonzo

...comeintomyparlor...

"Where'd you say you're from again?"

"England," the young man said quietly, his eyes cast sullenly to the dusty floor. He shuffled along behind the squat, balding man in the heavy, faded blue sweatshirt, slowly getting a feel for his surroundings.

"No no, the town," the older man repeated, cocking his head backwards, yet still not facing the other man. He gestured to a dark corner in the musty room. "We do footspeed drills over there," he murmured.

"Manchester."

"Manchester, huh? Yeah, I got family in Liverpool. Haven't seen 'em in damn near fifteen years though. Don't get outta the city too much. You know you don't sound English?"

"I grew up in Cottered."

"Gotcha. Nice town from what I hear. Who'd'a thought you'd end up here, huh?"

The young man snickered almost darkly, for reasons deeper than what his guide might have realized. He looked up finally, drawing his eyes from the mingling of grime and dried sweat caked onto the aging floorboards, and took in the entirety of the gym.

It was a training center for local boxers but there was only one ring in the whole place. The small selection of free weights were rusted a sickly yellow by the damp ocean air which found its way in through the poor ventilation. When the place was full, it was probably ridiculously hot. Various knick-knacks, ranging from jump ropes to gloves to stop watches dotted the odd hooks and racks which were grafted sloppily to the drywall. Faded old posters of former champs and framed antique promotional signs took up the rest of the walls.

It was a small building, nothing more than a converted storefront near the docks on Harbour City's near north side. Most of the surrounding structures were condemned, and those that weren't should have been. To say the least, an overwhelming majority of the gym's clientele wasn't interested in any title shots. It was the proximity to those particular clients that brought the quiet young man to the dingy old boxing ring which the locals simply called Jimmy's Place.

"Anyways, offices are back here. Mine and Eddie's," Jimmy continued. "And here's the janitor's closet. Most'a what you'll need is in here. Bathroom's over there. Any questions?"

Jimmy turned to face the young man for the first time since the quick tour had begun. He was tall and very well-built, but he cast his eyes towards the floor with a kind of victimized humility his proud body and posture betrayed. His eyes were a piercing, haunting black. There was something about the young man that transcended appearances. "No."

"Alright...So, you got something to wear? You're a little overdressed right now, y'know?" Jimmy snorted, quickly giving the dark blue suit a once over.

"Yes, I have plenty of old clothes."

"'Kay, good," Jimmy replied with a smile, extending his hand. The young man grasped it firmly and shook it, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "So, buddy, I'll see you at five tomorrow morning, and in crappy clothes. We'll need you to empty the buckets, hand out towels, hold bags, wipe down the equipment. Basic crap, y'know? But...These guys here aren't no sweethearts. This is one o' the roughest areas in Harbour...We get a lot waterfront guys, underground types, y'know what I mean? Sure you can handle it?"

"Yes. It won't be a problem. And after hours...?" the young man responded with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah yeah. You can work out for however long after we close the joint so long as you remember to lock up," Jimmy replied. He leaned closer to the notably taller man. "But if I find out you're bringin' your buddies in here for a little clam bake or if you're swipin' equipment, I'll fuckin' castrate you."

The young man flashed a placating smile.

"Yes sir."

"Good boy," Jimmy smiled. "So, that's it. Welcome to Jimmy's."

* * *

"...source in the HCPD says they got no leads!"

"...pictures from...?"

"Did anybody talk to...?"

"...I said fuckin' Sweet 'n' Low!"

"God damn it, has anybody seen Parsen?!"

Amie Paige stood with her fists plastered against her hips, squinted eyes surveying the chaos of the Harbour City Tribune's main editorial floor. A secretary furiously punching away at her keyboard paused to glance up at Paige.

"Hasn't been in the office since yesterday, Miss Paige."

"Christ, is it just me or doesn't that kid work here?" Paige growled, marching off in another direction. "Thanks anyways Doris."

The secretary smiled but Paige was already out of earshot before Doris could respond. The door to editor-in-chief Ian Thorpe's office slammed against the wall as the stunningly beautiful, newly re-crowned princess of the Harbour City media burst in.

"Thorpe! Damn it! Hammerhand's being released from the hospital today into military custody pending a trial! I'm able to get an exclusive with him thanks to some clever string-pulling, but guess what? Not only can I not get ahold of my photographer, but nobody's even seen the little prick! Is it my imagination or isn't that kid on our staff? He damn well better be getting docked pay because-"

Paige paused, noticing the man sitting against the wall to her right for the first time. He was well-built enough to almost be called top-heavy, and the trendy cut of his blonde hair seemed horribly mismatched with the old-fashioned, momma's boy grin he was wearing. Paige did find him cute though, in a kid down the block sort of way.

"Who's this?"

"Jesus Christ...Interviewed by Regina Darling and a book deal, and suddenly you've got attitude to spare," Thorpe said with a roll of his eyes. "THIS is John Norrington. Your new partner."

Paige faltered, her mouth falling agape.

"Just for a while," Thorpe persisted in a whiny tone, again rolling his eyes. "Kid's three years outta the university and he's been writing for a weekly out of Lorrington."

John stood up, brushing off his sport coat and extending a hand.

"Hi," he offered, a cocksure glint in his eye. Paige studied him for a quick moment.

"Hi yourself," she responded, her crimson lips slowly parting into a flirtatious smile. Her large eyes narrowed.

"Kid's got chops, Amie. Real dynamic style. Fit well here. I'm just looking for you to show him around town, introduce him to the right people. Show him your methods, you know, how you get a story."

Paige's lips tightened again but the smile remained on the corners of her mouth as she came a half-step closer to John.

"Well, maybe not all my methods," she said, looking to Thorpe. Her gaze found its way purposefully back to Norrington. "Well, not right away anyways," she purred.

There was something about younger men.

"Christ," Thorpe grumbled as one of John's eyebrows lifted. "Didn't you come in here yelling for something not more than a minute ago, Princess Attention Span?"

"Parsen!" she said, suddenly reminded. "Yeah, dammit, I need P-"

"I sent Parsen out to cover the rededication of Poole Fountain for the Metro Living section. Their staff photographer's covering the garden fair and I didn't feel like calling a freelancer for a project like this," Thorpe commented absently as he sifted through a small stack of papers. Paige was about to protest just as the editor pulled out a glossy sheet of paper and tossed it to the other side of his desk. Paige and Norrington advanced curiously, but upon sight of the picture, Paige quickly turned away.

"Jesus..." she gasped.

Norrington, however, was not shaken. He stared grimly at the photo.

"Something Parsen dropped off this morning. Said he snuck into a crime scene last night and almost got himself arrested."

"Then that's-" Paige began.

"...Seen this before," Norrington murmured with narrowed eyes.

"Excuse me?" said Thorpe.

"Well, you know, not this EXACTLY..." he chuckled with an uneasy grin. He looked to Paige. "But, this sort of thing..."

"Gruesome," Paige shivered.

"Well, if our sources are correct, that's the third this week alone. And it seems they're getting more and more frequent. 'Drainers' is the buzzword being thrown around at the police stations, I believe. Gruesome murders with minimal blood at the scene. I'm sure I don't have to point out the obvious connotations of the name."

"Christ," John growled darkly. "Bastards..."

"If you're talking about the cops, then I agree," Thorpe said, reclining in his chair. "Word on this is just starting to leak out, and they won't even acknowledge what's going on here. They're keeping a tight lid on this."

"Why?" Paige asked. "Public panic?"

"Well, I'm sure Mayor Briggs can just chalk all the hush-hush up to the new media restrictions after that business with the Spyder at the Continental a few months back," Norrington offered.

Paige shrank visibly, shuddering.

"Funny you should mention that," Thorpe smirked. He looked at Paige for a moment, who would not return his gaze. "Our sources also say that our vigilante friend is the prime suspect in these 'drainers'."

Paige and Norrington both fell eerily silent.

"This picture goes to the AP tomorrow morning, folks. I need a story to go with it before then."

"Ian, I ca-"

"You can and you will," Thorpe interrupted. "As far as the public is concerned, Amie, you are the Spyder. Your name is synonymous with his from here to bloody Tasmania. I've got exclusive pictures, I've got tasty leads, and I've got the goddamn Spyder. Which means the masses get a story with your name on it."

Paige did not respond.

"I'm coming with, right?" Norrington asked.

"Oh yes. This is a great one to cut your teeth on. Harbour at its finest."

John looked pleased. Amie remained silent, even as Norrington turned to her, approaching with a soft look upon his face.

"I can protect you," John said softly. Thorpe cringed silently at the comment.

With a huff, the door to Thorpe's office slammed, leaving the two men alone. Norrington straightened his tie a bit, watching through the office's glass walls as Paige indignantly marched out of sight through the rows of desks and cubicles.

He sighed.

"Something I said?"

"Eh. She had a run-in with the Spyder. I'm sure you've read or heard about it, and there's really not much more to it than that. The sooner she fuckin' gets over it, the better for all of us. Especially her...AND her career. I'll give you the office where you can meet with her after she's cooled off," Thorpe smiled evilly. "Until then, I'm sure you can find something to do..."

* * *

The blood, what little there was of it, was still wet on the pavement. The screams he'd heard from the rooftops did not betray him. But the murderer had already vanished back into the darkness. Yet again, the Spyder found himself alone with the dead and his thoughts.

He breathed deeply behind the blackness of his mask, tasting the foulness hanging in the stale, night air. Even the seemingly ceaseless ocean winds had granted the ancient city a small reprieve for the night, and the resulting stillness left the Spyder more than a bit unsettled. The summer weather had been building toward a crescendo for the past two months, the heat growing in direct proportion with the stream of fresh cadavers. He had heard the word 'drainers' more than once in his observation of the police and their investigations. He had only had the opportunity to examine a handful of the victims, but he could tell that the name was more than appropriate. Bodies seemingly drained of blood. Skin devoid of color, wounds oddly dry and cauterized. The Spyder found himself with half a mind to check their necks for teeth marks.

He pulled back his trenchcoat with his left hand and reached toward his armpit with his right. He snapped a small flashlight off of the shoulder harness which hugged his trim form beneath the light black kevlar of his coat. With a soft click, he attached it to the side of his head, mounting it upon the second leg of the large faux arachnid which wrapped itself around the front of his mask. With another soft click, the light turned on.

The Spyder had recognized the pattern of these 'drainers' early on. They were not the killings of some mindless beast. They were not the purposeless slaughter of a serial killer. The victims were not random. No, within these killings, the Spyder had almost immediately seen a kinship...An odd, yet almost satisfying reflection of himself.

All of the victims were criminals.

Vigilantism.

Which meant that the police were going to be after him.

These murders were not his doing. He could at least be certain of that, but the Harbour City Police Department did not have such a luxury. He didn't have to be a genius to realize that the law would pursue whatever flimsy lead it could in their hunt. The savagery he had displayed months earlier in his return had affected many, many people. Not the least of whom was the Spyder himself. Though he had continued his crusade with the same violent fervor he had always shown the city, he had grown only increasingly more empty since fleeing from a broken man in the graveyard. His justice did not fulfill the hunger of his heart as it did before. Instead, his soul seemed to grow colder and colder with each of his vicious attacks, leaving nothing but a shell of a man, and somewhere deep inside himself he desperately tried to conceal the secret that no matter how hard he tried, he knew his vengeance could never be satisfied. He could not, would not admit to himself that he would always be empty.

He grunted and rolled one of the bodies onto its back, its dead weight smacking hard upon the unforgiving concrete. The ungodly stench which rose from the cavity torn into the corpse's stomach caused the Spyder to turn away for a moment. He hit a small button alongside the thorax of his facial spider and engaged the mask's rebreather. He returned his attention to the fresh corpse and went to work.

Alone with the dead and his thoughts.

He had nearly forgotten the loneliness of an existence so close to the darkness. He hated all those that others might say were like him, and was in turn hated by all those others. A man forever trapped in the Purgatory of humanity. He had begun to find himself unable to sleep again, just like it was before he had given it up. Paranoid. The world itself had grown surreal, and often he could barely stand the feelings of claustrophobia, as if he was some rabid animal lured stupidly into a farmer's trap. All around him existence constricted, and the solitude had begun to breed demons, dark things which seemed to float in and out of reality like the aftershock of fading nightmares. Voices and faces screaming from a distant past. The countless dead revisiting the Spyder in haunting visions he tried feverishly to ignore. But there were some things he knew he could never forget. Demons which would haunt his waking hours until the day he died. And as the world imploded about him, they just seemed to come flying at him faster and faster.

Shaking his head, the Spyder concentrated on his work. The wounds on the body were far from surgical. Savage gashes straight through the skin in almost random patterns. What was left only faintly resembled anything human. Entire limbs were stripped from sockets, exposing tangled meshes of sinew, cartilage, and dry arteries. The Spyder paused for a moment, stretching back one of the men's heads to get a better view into the hole where his windpipe had once been buried. Several hardened strands of flesh gave way with soft tears as the wound opened under the Spyder's uncaring hand. He stared for a moment, slowly bobbing his own head to direct the light.

As they did each time he visited the scene of a 'drainer', the Spyder's thoughts raced back to an almost offhand observation. It was Devil's Night. As he glided silently above the city, racing recklessly headfirst into the embracing arms of fate, he had looked down. And for a scant moment, Raymundo Zuleta had fled from his mind. He remembered the large pile of street thugs, bound and bloody. Yet alive. Not by his hand. Could that incident possibly be related to the more recent string of grisly vigilante murders? He had turned it over and over in his mind. The slaughters had become more and more frequent. It was far from inconceivable that this new player had found himself becoming increasingly comfortable in the role of executioner. In truth, the Spyder knew that feeling all too well.

Releasing his grip on the victim's forehead, he allowed the neck wound to collapse back on itself, a bubbling of viscous fluids streaming down onto the street. The Spyder grunted. His eyes traveled to the young man's face. Not more than seventeen years old. Facial hair still growing in uneven patches. Eyes wide with the promise of life, now darkened with the cold reality of death. Briefly, the Spyder thought of his parents. But the air pushing upon his chest grew heavy and he shook the lingering vision violently from his mind, demons' snickers still hanging in the air as the thoughts faded. He reached for the small blade tucked securely into his ankle scabbard. He focused intently on the young man's mouth. It was open, frozen in the gape of fear, forever silenced in a horrible scream. Dead.

"She was afraid that you would kill her."

The Spyder paused, blinking. He grunted through his nose, like an animal dismissing some annoyance. He shook his head, resuming his work and driving the voice from his mind. He pulled the knife from his ankle as he leaned closer to the dead face.

She stared at the ceiling with cold, frightened eyes.

The vision slammed into the Spyder's brain. He jumped a bit, suddenly losing track of his surroundings. Another bestial grunt as he fought against his own mind. He regained focus, squinting hard, trying desperately to control his thoughts as he carefully brought the blade to the young man's gaping mouth. With his free hand, he gripped the jaw tightly and pulled down, fighting against the rigor mortis and peering down the throat. The knife cut neatly through the distraction of the dead man's tongue. The Spyder tossed the small piece of flesh elsewhere into the alley.

"She was terrified of you, Daniel! Terrified!"

"Shut up," the Spyder growled to the voice in his head as he pulled the jaw down further, bringing his face close to that of the dead man. He carefully inspected the mouth. Had he more time he would have liked to examine the wounds. But under the conditions, he had to look in the cleanest, most obvious places for his clues. He didn't have the luxury of the time it would take to sift through the gore. Back alley autopsies had never followed a standard operating procedure.

"...You brought her into your fucked up excuse for a life!"

"I said shut up," the Spyder rasped. Using the flat edge of his knife to depress the flesh of the front of the throat, the Spyder took one last look. Nothing.

"Damn it," the vigilante growled. He leaned back now, grabbing the victim's one remaining arm by the wrist and lifting it. He pulled the hand close to his face. He turned the appendage over, looking at the palm first. A large gash across the wrist. Again hitting an artery, as he expected. He turned the hand back over. Several punctures and abrasions across the surface. Dried blood caked under the fingernails...

No, not blood.

"What the fuck..."

A dark, jet black substance which looked almost like dry, clumpy ink...Except for the spastic shuddering, like the beating wings of an insect clinging to its last gasp of life. Hurriedly, the Spyder began to saw at the first knuckle, viciously hacking his way through tendons and cartilage. He tugged, ripping the top half of the finger away from the rest of the hand.

"You sick bastard."

"Shut up," the Spyder growled yet again at the voices whispering through his ears.

"Oh my God..." the voice persisted as the Spyder tucked the disembodied appendage into a small pouch on the interior of his overcoat. The vigilante began breathing heavy as the whispers grew louder, condemning him for the supposed atrocity he had just committed. He began to realize that something was amiss. These whispers were not ghosts drifting from his past...

"Police!"

The Spyder jerked his head at the sound of the shrill scream, his head- mounted flashlight illuminating the figure of a prostitute standing at the mouth of the alley.

"Police! Jesus Christ, police! Help! Help!"

The Spyder cursed harshly, ripping the flashlight from his forehead and tucking it back into his shoulder harness even as he moved to flee. The voices and visions which so haunted his subconscious had, for the first time, compromised both his senses and his safety. Beside that, now with an eyewitness, no matter how unreliable, to place him at the scene and mutilating the bodies, the police were sure to make him their one and only suspect. Something drastic would have to be done on their part, particularly as the nature of the crimes could not be kept long out of the public eye.

Again the Spyder cursed as he was swallowed up by the cackling, torturous shadows.

* * *

Norrington tugged firmly on the sleeves of his undershirt, then quickly checked to ensure that the cuffs were buttoned. His fingers then snaked their way to his collar, where he straightened and tightened his tie, before flapping the lapels of his jacket a few times. He brushed his fingers across the surface of the hair at his temples. Satisfied that he was presentable, he knocked at the office door.

"Come in."

John opened the door with a small smile and nodded to Amie Paige, who swiveled her chair away from the computer screen.

"Jesus Christ, did you actually go to China for dinner or what?"

"Oh, no, no," Norrington stammered with a grin. "You know, I'm still new in town. Got lost."

"John, Ming's is right around the corner..."

"Yeah, well, I took the wrong corner. Made it back okay though. Their eggrolls were great. Anyways, you got anything, or...?"

"No, not really," Paige replied as she turned back to her monitor. "Been going through a lot of old murder cases on the Trib's databases, but not really finding anything that's clicking for me. Called the police station and city hall at least five times a piece, and nobody's called me back. Even tried talkin' to this guy I know...Foster...down at the mayor's office, but I think the secretary recognized my voice."

"Paul Foster, huh?"

"Yeah," Paige said slowly, turning back to face Norrington. "How'd you know...?"

"Well..." John dragged the word out uncomfortably. "Remember seeing his name in your Spyder-Zuleta articles."

Paige studied him quizzically for a moment.

"Oh," she said.

"Look, Amie," John said, pulling up the chair next to Paige. "I just had to let you know that...Well, what I said earlier...I didn't mean to insult you or anything, you know? It's just that..."

"No, no, don't worry about it," Paige answered, her eyes dropping to her keyboard as she pressed her palm to her forehead.

"Really, I do actually understand that it was difficult for you...Probably more than you'd realize..."

"It's just..." Paige sighed, her eyes closing. "I'm sure you know, but...God. He was right there. Right there in front of me. I mean, Christ, he...He hit me."

"He what?" John's interest suddenly perked from compassion to anger.

"Yeah. John, he hit me in the throat. It hurt, but he...He killed all those other people. And he had his gun...His gun was pointed straight at me. I looked him right in the eyes. Right in those fucking eyes..."

Her sentence trailed off into a sniffle, punctuated by a deep, heaving breath as she struggled to fight the tears.

"It's hard to look a killer in the eye," John said with conviction, moving close to Amie. "Especially a killer like him. Believe me, I know."

"Do you?" Paige responded, almost indignantly, as she looked to him. His face was firm, strong, yet seemingly concealing some deeper emotion, some further kind of empathy. "He could have killed me, John. He could have killed me so easily, right then and there. He could have killed any of us. And he knew it. I looked into his eyes, and I saw that he didn't care. He didn't care if any of us lived or died that night as long as he finished what he had started. He believed in what he was doing. And...and for a second...God..."

She began to sob. John laid a gentle hand on her back as she lowered her head to the desktop, resting it there as she cried.

"It's okay..." John purred. "I know, I know..."

"No you don't!" she managed between the tears. "I saw the conviction in his eyes, and I thought...I thought that maybe he was right! You know?!...Maybe he...Maybe him and what he does are the only god damn things that make sense anymore!"

"No," John interrupted her coldly. The unwavering, almost melodramatic certainty of his voice caught her off-guard. Her sobs slowed as she looked into his hard eyes. "He's a killer. And he has to be punished. He's a very bad person, Amie. You know that inside, in your heart, and whatever he did to you, or made you feel, you don't deserve it. You know who the good guys are."

His eyes softened a bit as he looked into hers. She smiled, wiping a tear from her cheek and straightening back up in her chair. He smiled back, the anger melting from his features.

"You really seem to have things in order for such a young guy," she said warmly.

"Yeah, well I-"

"Paige!"

Amie and John were suddenly jerked from each other's eyes as Thorpe burst into the room.

"Just got word! We've got another drainer, and this time an eyewitness puts the Spyder himself at the scene! The dam just broke, honey! Cops are gonna have to go public with this! We need you down there now, Parsen's already on the way!"

Norrington hoisted himself from the chair assuredly as Amie scrambled to collect her things from her desk. She turned to see her new partner's hand outstretched before her. With a smile and a slight pause, she took it, feeling his strength as it wrapped around her own dainty fingers.

"Let's go."

* * *

"So in my opinion, gimme the Beatles any day of the week over this goddamned Emo crap. I hear England's just flowin' over with that shit...That and that Kylie Minogue girl. Y'know, the techno stuff. I mean, I know you'd probably think 'young, Asian guy, livin' in a big city, gotta be into the clubs and techno'. That's really not the case though. I like the old stuff. Beatles, Elvis, Beach Boys...Old American music's surprisingly good. I've even got some CDs of Aborigine music too. Good to listen to while working out, stuff like that. I dunno, call me a history aficionado. So how about you? What music do you like?"

Donnie Wong stared blankly for a long moment, awaiting an answer. The uncomfortable silence was enough to alert the woman he was working with that something was amiss. Maggie Pierce glanced up nervously from her work, trying to cover up the fact that she had been paying absolutely no attention to what her co-worker had been saying.

"Sorry, what...?" she said sheepishly with an apologetic smile.

Donnie, never one to really let anything bother him, just rolled his eyes and snorted. Maggie watched him for a moment as he chuckled it off and leaned into his microscope, returning to the forensic work which was keeping both of them at the station into the early hours of the morning. Donnie seemed rather carefree for a man who worked with dead bodies all day. Maggie wondered how much of that was actually an act, and how much of it was bred from pure ignorance. It had to be a bit of both.

Maggie glanced back down into her own microscope, at the cell sample culled from underneath one of the fresh body's fingernails. Clues were starting to materialize about these drainers. Unsettling clues.

"Why would he take off the top of a finger?" Donnie pondered absently as he fiddled with the microscope's focus.

Maggie's eyes shifted to her own microscope and then back to Donnie.

"You know what, Donnie?" she suddenly announced, reclining in her chair. "It's getting so late, and you've been here all day. I'm sure you're tired. I'm feeling alright myself, so if you wanna get going, I can just stick around and finish up..."

"Really?" Donnie replied thoughtfully. "I mean, I am tired, but this case is so big, and with the press conference tomorrow..."

"Really," Maggie persisted. "I can handle it."

"I mean, I'd feel more comfortable if..."

"Donnie, go home."

Donnie was taken aback by the stern command. The two regarded each other for a long moment, the air seeming to grow cold. Donnie could not seem to place the emotion of Maggie's eyes, but whatever it was, it unnerved him.

"Y'know, maybe we both need a little rest," Donnie said, gathering his things.

"Yeah," Maggie agreed. She removed the slide from her microscope and placed it in a small plastic box. Donnie watched her suspiciously for a moment before realizing that she had frozen, and her own eyes were trained on him. Their gazes locked, and Donnie turned away.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing...Nothing..." Donnie stammered, shuffling through his papers. "It's nothing...Just tired, y'know? Let's call it a night."

"Right," Maggie said with narrowed eyes. She watched coolly as Donnie stuffed the paperwork into his briefcase. She turned back to her own desk, deftly slipping the plastic box into her purse, then quickly snapped back to her co-worker, only to find his gaze again settled on her.

Another uncomfortable silence fell about them as Donnie's confused eyes darted from Maggie's impatient face to the purse she clutched tightly in her lap.

"Maggie, did...Did you just t-..."

"Ron, hi!"

Donnie shook his head, confounded by Maggie's sudden outburst and extreme change in demeanor. She nearly sprang from her chair, approaching the door to the lab. Donnie turned, to see her greet Middleton with a perky handshake.

"You two really burning the midnight oil here, huh?" Middleton smiled as she cozied up next to him.

"Actually, we were just closing up for the night. Great timing," Maggie said with a huge smile that was eagerly returned by Middleton.

"That right, Donnie? Maggie's not cutting out early on you, is she?" Middleton asked, playfully wrapping his arm around the new CSI's shoulders. She reached up, brushing her fingertips against his.

"Uh, yeah...Yeah, we're about done," Donnie replied.

"You alright, Donnie?"

"Yeah...Yeah, Mid, I'm fine. Just tired, y'know?"

"Alright, man. Get some rest."

"Yeah, yeah I will," Donnie said with a forced smile.

"Ron, care to walk me to my car?" Maggie asked, interrupting Middleton and Donnie's exchange.

"Why Miss Pierce I'd be delighted," Middleton chuckled, offering his elbow. She slid her own arm into its crook, smiling up at Middleton with bright white teeth. "Well, Donnie, I think that's my cue. 'Night"

"Yeah...Yeah...Good night."

"'Night Donnie," Maggie said, shooting him one last look before shutting the door behind her and her escort.

Donnie was left alone in the dark, staring at Maggie's empty desk.

* * *

"...go now live to City Hall, where Mayor Leo Briggs is about to begin a press conference to address the recent string of grisly murders along the Harbour City waterfront."

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the press and of Harbour City. In just a moment, Mayor Briggs will speak on behalf of the Harbour City Police Department regarding a high-profile string of murders which have all occurred under highly unusual circumstances over the past few weeks. Following this conference, several members of the police department will be fielding further questions at the discretion of city media liaisons, in accordance with recently updated media restrictions. Any concerns can be addressed to my office. So, if there are no questions at this time...His honor, Mayor Leo Briggs."

"Thank you, Paul. Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today not only as a fearless leader of this great town, but also as a concerned citizen. A plague has befallen our great city, a plague of murder, and with it has come death, and fear. Fear that is not completely unwarranted. Over the course of the past three weeks, your police department has been investigating a series of bizarre killings which have come to be known as 'drainers'. These drainers are characteristici...charact-...characterized by large gashes, literally torn deeply into the body where veins and arteries are closest to the surface of the skin. Furthermore, and perhaps by coinciden-...er, wait...perhaps COINCIDING with these wounds, very little blood has actually been found at these murders, either still in the body or otherwise.

"Now quiet down, quiet down. I, heh, already heard the word 'vampire' buzzing around the crowd out there. Now let me assure you all, these murders are not the doing of ghouls or goblins. Now that's just silly. But, obviously, there is something strange going on here. However, it's nothing we can't get to the bottom of.

"As we all learned a few months ago, sometimes some of this strangeness reaches beyond the scope of our regular police force. And I, like any man, can sometimes make mistakes...I admit that. I think we can all now realize the value of a good supers investigator in a case like this. Now, please realize that I'm not saying for certain that we have some crazed science being mauling people out there. Possibly far from it. But it is better to be safe than sorry.

"Believe it or not, a case like this is not unprecedented. Without going into specific details, I will say that there have been some similar occurrences in Europe, and some isolated incidents in Russia. And each time, local law enforcement has enlisted the services of a very particular supers investigator. This man has conducted investigations worldwide, on each of the seven continents. He is a master of his craft, a so-called 'occult specialist' without equal. He has been an operative with the Italian secret service for the past twenty-seven years. His track record is impeccable, with nearly two hundred arrests to his name. And, effective immediately, he is being granted complete control of the Harbour City Police Department's investigation of the Drainer Murders. In turn, we are expecting, of course, a quick and clean resolution to the problem. I know he will not disappoint. Ladies and gentlemen, without further adieu, I give you...Doctor Guillermo del Nostromo.

"Questions?"