ONE

COME ALL YOU WEARY

Augusta was a city that never slept, though that didn’t come with a lack of trying; The rush of nightlife was a direct mirror of the bustle of the day. Cars sped in the streets with urgency (and drunkenness); lights on the skyline flickered like fireflies beneath the moonless night sky. Crowds gathered on corners near popular hotspots in the purple and red-light districts respectfully, partygoers hollering mixed in a discordant mess of the city’s chorus of noise. This serenaded the population reduced to living in the dark alleyways that twisted through Augusta’s fine streets.

At the corner of Jeffries and 11th street, just off the main boulevard and away from most of the noise, stood St. Michael’s Catholic Church. A gothic structure that illuminated its landmark bell, gargoyles stood sentinel among the towers overlooking the city. Its doors were still open, and the candles of the night-mass vigil were still burning, illuminating the halls with its ambient, ominous glow.

After heaving the ornate door open, a stout older fellow hobbled in the threshold to the church. He did his any devout man’s duty: tapped a finger in the holy water and crossed himself. Head, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder, and brought his hand to his lips. He’d been shaking all the way over, possibly from the exhaustion since the walk from the sub-rail stations was a couple of blocks, and he hadn’t had proper exercise in years. As he wiped his eyes, the stocky little fellow pulled the hat from his head and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He stopped at just a few steps inside and marveled at the interior: the gothic archways that led into the beautiful monument of old architecture, stained-glass windows with the saints along the walls, polished pews that were well-kept… being here always made him nervous. He was a God-fearing man, but he hadn’t set foot in a church in a great while.

The stress of his weight on the old wood made it creak loudly, but he hoisted himself into the confessional and plopped down on the seat. He crossed himself again and relaxed back onto the red cushion on the back of the chair. 

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned?” The upward inflection in his voice showed off his uncertainty. Confessions were never his forte. As he thought back, he tried to remember the code Dmitri had given him when reporting to the priest. The King’s herald. “It’s been… Four days since my last confession.”

Something stirred on the other side of the booth. After a few seconds, it finally settled. “Go on, my son.” The stern voice of an older man came through the net and lattice and scared him.

There was a pregnant pause before he let out a nervous chuckle. His legs were bouncing, a nervous tick that kicked up from the ball of his foot. There was much to report. There were so many details to explain and why he was forced to come here in the first place. However, it seemed like something caught his tongue. 

“You’re safe here, my son.”

“Safe? What you got in these walls won’t keep us safe from what’s out there.” 

The priest, though unseen by the sniveling informant, smiled. “Did you do as your Father asked?”

“Yes s-sir. I mean, Father.” James gulped. 

“Tell me… what happened?”

“M-Me and my boys were at DZ’s market, just a few m-miles away from here...”

***

 DZ’s Market, Hours Ago…

 “Just throw the money in the bag, kid.” An older man with a beard peeking out from behind his ski-mask gestured at the clerk.

“Yeah! Do what he says!” The over-eager one with a loaded 9mm pistol pointed directly at the clerk’s head, waving it around like it was a mere toy.

“How about you shut the hell up, eh?” The frontman peered at his younger cohort, then turned back to the clerk. “Do it, and no one gets hurt.”

The lanky teenager behind the counter complied, unarmed and unable to handle himself against four masked assailants. He grabbed the canvas bag and typed in the unlock code for the cash register, but his shaky fingers caused him to double-tap one of the numbers, and the alert of the failure rang out mockingly. He cowered and tried again, only to stumble on the code once more. The boy whimpered, tears and sweat running down his pale cheeks.

“Is there a fucking problem here… Ricky?” 

The boy gulped. “N-No sir, I just—”

An older man with a voice as harsh as sandpaper pressed the extended barrel of his shotgun on the boy’s forehead and gave it a forceful push. “I said HURRY UP!” 

Ding-ding… The bell over DZ’s front entrance rang, but it was quickly silenced by a thin hand over the metal shell. 

“Sorry, asshole. We’re closed.” The apparent leader of this demolition crew decided to speak up. 

Two locks clicked shut, one bolt over the top corner, and the other was the central deadbolt on the handle of the door. The chain on the neon open sign was pulled, killing the bulbs instantly, and the sign on the door was turned. The place wasn’t only closed, it’d been locked down for safety—the safety of the public. 

“What, are you deaf? This. Place. Is. Closed.”

The hooded customer didn’t answer, perhaps because they had a set of headphones in, blaring some classic tracks. The baggy hoodie almost made it difficult to tell that a woman had wandered into this storm with intent to find the eye. The fresh leather creaked as she flexed her shoulders. All she wanted to do was buy some whiskey and head home, wherever that would be. It seemed there was more trouble coming around for the strip lately, but she wasn’t going to let anything happen to DZ’s. 

She promised.

She took five slow and calculated steps toward the group that had convened around the front counter, breaking through their staggering half-circle stance to take a stand between the boy Ricky and the dark-clad men. She didn’t have to say a word, just tip her head back in a gesture that meant he should already know what she’d come in for because she was a regular in this neck of the woods. 

Still nervous as all hell, the young boy nodded at her and turned, reaching carefully for two packs of menthol cigarettes from the top shelf. Forge and Hammer brand. 100s. 

“What the fuck is this?” 

“I don’t think she could hear you, boss—”

The double-click and set of a baton cut the air, and it swooshed in the direction of the younger thug, punching him straight in the forehead before retracting and hitting the floor with a clang. The woman hadn’t even bothered to turn, but her aim was right on target and had successfully knocked out the string-bean excuse for a hoodlum.

The three other criminals staggered back, two of them moving the guns to aim at her and the other pulling a knife from his belt. 

One down.

Moving quickly before they clustered up to regroup, she did a roundhouse kick to the one closest to her left side she dubbed ‘Mr. Nine Milo”, then extended her baton to go in for a quick swing at the brawny one with the shotgun. She thwapped his knuckles with a hard crunch to disarm him, once on the forehand and the other one that stabilized it at the handle. He made a pathetic little attempt to dive for it with his freshly broken hand, but she extended her leg to kick it away, and it slid down the snack aisle. 

“Aww shit!” He grumbled, favoring his weakened hand as he skittered off toward the back end of the aisle where it been thrown. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“The hell are you doing? Go back up there and take her DOWN!” There was a fifth person in the store, cowering in the back corner by the fountain beverages. A pudgy fellow from what she could tell, but the distance he kept between himself and the fight meant she wouldn’t have to deal with him interrupting.

“Hm.” The woman huffed. The leather tightened, and she zipped up her hoodie beneath it. She waited for someone to make the next move to let these instigators make the next throw.

The shorter one with the dark eyes and long eyelashes who oozed of ill-temperament, the one she named ‘Shotgun Steve’ stepped forward. He led with his left foot and heaved the right side of his barrel-shaped body in what was a terrible attempt at a hook. She stood back and out of the way of the blow, turning up her palms to reveal the white glow within them, and a gust had carried along with the swing of the stocky man’s fist into the thug across from him. 

“Oh no, she’s…”

“Fuck.”

A second set of double-clicks from her other baton extending was quickly followed by an uppercut to the chin of the third and final thug standing there in awe with his knife. She was sure a tooth flew out of his mouth, and the switchblade he carried flew into the air, and she caught it by its handle, closed it up, and tucked it into her pocket. The man fell with a thud, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth from the dislodged tooth. It was an easy knockout, but she still had the matter of the others left standing behind her. She picked up her other baton from the ground and clapped them together with a satisfying ping before readying up once more. 

And then there were two… 

“Let’s go, sweetheart.” Shotgun Steve growled.

Ugh.

It took no time to dispose of them; A flurry of swings at her sides knocked them away. At first glance, it might have looked like random attacks, but they were precise as they landed on the intended targets’ arms and abdomen. The men cried out in pain with each strike, varying in pitch depending on where they’d been hit. They grunted low with each of the gut checks and jabs to the side and higher notes for hits to the delicate parts... Like when she struck them right in the nuts. 

Interesting.

One of them dared to be brave and charge at her, his arms out with the full intent to grab onto her arms or clothing, but she focused her defense at him and brought her foot up to kick him square in the sternum. Even without its charge of the Gale, the kick sent him bounding back into the refrigerator that stored the bounty of energy drinks and sodas. Inside the cold storage, the light buzzed before shorting out and sparking from the impact, adding more to the monetary supplement she’d have to throw in for the repairs to Darren when he saw the mess. 

The last one standing, Mr. Nine Milo, looked about the type to be a college dropout, high school if he aged poorly. He was desperately trying to stand up for himself after being battered by the mysterious woman who came in like a tornado, and singlehandedly ripped through them. One by one. Piece by piece.

“No… oh God!” Without being hit, he tumbled backward, his voice cracking as he desperately tried to find his escape.

The woman pulled the earbud out of her left ear and leaned down over him, ripping off his mask, revealing his identity for the cameras in the store. His blond hair was matted, mixed with sweat, his eyes filled with fear as he looked up at the silhouette of the woman peeking from beneath the hood of her sweater. “I’m sorry, you didn’t tell me who you worked for.”

Somewhere down the line, that fear begat hysteria, which was somehow mistaken for bravery. “You didn’t ask.” He laughed, spitting somewhere to the side of her boots.

“Oooh, big brave boy, are you?” The whites of her teeth could be seen through the shadow when she grinned. The woman carefully placed her fingers around his wrist and twisted until she heard the satisfying crackle of his bones popping under her fist. “Now… your bullshit was tuned up a little loud. Can you speak a little louder for me, darlin’?”

“AHHH!” He screamed, heavily breathing as she pressed harder, puffing like a woman in her third trimester with severe labor pains. “I-I don’t know his n-name. They don’t say, a-and we d-don’t ask.”

“Hey!” The fat man roared from where he hid in the corner. His shrill voice cut through the aisle quite clearly, without his men to block the path.

“You stay out of this.” The white glow returned, enough to send some of the merchandise flying toward the corner to peg the fat man in the head.

The kid ignored him, clearly in fear of the dangerous woman standing over him. “W-we were just paid to—” He was cut short when the pop of a fist colliding with his nose stopped him mid-sentence. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t enough to cave in his entire skull but and left him conscious enough to watch the woman stand up and dust herself off. He rested his palms flat on the floor and used what little traction on his worn-out combat boots to scoot away. “W-what the fuck are you, lady?!”

*** 

“And?”

James, that fat man who had been cowering in the corner, rubbed his head, still sore from getting hit by everything. He’d overexerted his muscles to try and tuck himself as tight as possible into that corner. James gulped. “N-Nightingale, she said. Her name is N-Nightingale.” The name didn’t mean much to James. The Powered were going around town giving themselves names and calling themselves heroes, but the one at DZ’s didn’t act like one. The hooded woman with the glowing hands could be called whatever the hell she wanted, but since he’d just read the file Dmitri had given him in the coffee shop, the Nightingale wasn’t just another one of those people. She was his target.

Silence.

The wood creaked again as he leaned in closer to the divider, attempting to peek through. A loud and warning thump caused him to jump back. “I’m sorry, sir—f-father.”

“Curiosity is a trait of mortal man. There is no shame in that, James.”

The church already unsettled him, but the priest was giving him the creeps. He took a deep breath and pulled the papers out of his jacket pocket. Slowly, he set them on the bench beside him, with what little room there was between him and the wall. “I have what he asked for. Mr. D…” James nearly choked on his words. He knew better than to use his name again. He fidgeted, almost cradling his hand to his chest. The man in that stupid blue suit wanted to be called by something else. Discreet. Undercover. As an informant strong-armed by one of King’s men, James would do well to remember the callsign. “Mr. Knight. I-I brought what he wanted, where he w-wanted… now what? What else do you want from me?”

“Nothing more.”

“So that’s all then?” 

“For now. You’ve done well, my son.”