#p:john

  He’d seen the news, not through his usual method of jacking in and wading through the reels upon reels of data streaming directly into his head. No, he’d been wondering aimlessly, scarcely sure what to do with himself with the new found freedom he’d gained, the small black ports that protruded from either side of his head fed into a pair of mock glasses, making him look awfully a lot like Cyclops, still the gear meant he could see.

  It wasn’t totally natural, he hadn’t after all regained his useless eyes, it was just an improved version of his old headgear, no more glitches and a far better capturing resolution. Which, meant the information streamed into his head was crystal clear, he could see the heavy smog that lingered across the rooftops, could see the rush of people moving on by ignorant or uncaring of the chaos that was starting to unfold.

  Dion stood in the middle of it all, in awe and disbelief, he’d had the new gear installed for nearly an hour and he’d still not grown accustomed yet. Head tilted upwards, attention fixated on the big sprawling newsboards pinned against a corporate building, the news he’d missed just a few days ago was still making the headlines, Wolverine was dead.

  This new little piece of information combined with the lack of contact he’d had with John lately spurred a small bite of panic, he navigated through unfamiliar territory, the city was all but alien to him now he was being bombarded with a new sense. Kept relying on the GPS signalling that would flash up in the corner of his ‘vision’. It was odd experiencing John’s apartment for a second time, chasing up the stairs but seeing the flecked paint, the aged and nearly decrepit building in it’s full glory.

  By the time he got to his front door Dion had nearly keeled over, the infection that he’d suffered from a week ago was coming back with vengeance and nothing he was taking was staving it off. Just about managed to knock on the door between hacking up his lungs, half slumped against the door, “John.”

  “John, open up it’s me.”

  It hadn’t bothered him so much at first, he wasn’t bound to John at the hip after all but as time sprawled on and they spent less and less time together he grew tired of waiting. If the apartment was empty he’d tug the girls out for a walk, he’d go and pester his brother or Quin’s personal favourite he’d drive. Didn’t spend anywhere near as much time prowling from bar to bar, was avoiding the clubs down in Charter Hill so he didn’t happen into Elli (or Jack for that matter). Driving and drinking didn’t go hand in hand, he knew that much. It also provided him with an alternative to the slot machines and card tables he favoured, gambling on races tended to pay out better. It was where his reckless nature truly shone, never shying too far away from turning his aventador into crumpled tree art.

  None of that tonight, he was home and growing steadily impatient. He hadn’t been concerned initially, never struck him that this could’ve been something he had done (or was not doing). It was only a few days ago that his epiphany had hit him, ever since he’d been extra careful to clean up after himself. Even sold on the ridiculous television he’d brought with him, gotten a pretty penny for it – that and his gambling wins had all been poured into his latest and legally acquired car. A Dodge Charger, that made his other baby look brand spanking new. Rusted and in desperate need of restoration it was going to be a project that’d take him longer than a few weeks. An annoyance but it’d be worth it, he intended to restore the muscle car to it’s former glory. Something to occupy him but it didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about John, about them.

  As part of his action plan and apparent new year’s resolution to not fuck up quite so much he’d set out an evening of romance – nothing quite on par to what John had done for him in the past but hopefully still good. John’s old record player had been playing the same record over and over for hours, eventually he’d turned it off in a bout of frustration. He’d even gone so far to acquire a beautifully cooked meal from a nearby restaurant he’d even dug out something that was reasonably smart to wear. Plain dark jeans that sat comfortably on slim hips with a shirt, likely one of John’s given it didn’t quite fit him, just a little too short in the sleeves.

  Now instead of being ready for when he finally came home Quin was slouched on the sofa, one of Morte’s toys in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He threw the ball and the great dopey dog bounded after it into the next room. Not that he didn’t mind their company, although Mariskha was still no better than she had been, he craved to be around people or rather a singular person whose name started with J and ended with N.

  He usually combated this annoyance, loneliness, by turning to another’s arms for a night but Quin didn’t want just anyone, didn’t want some pretty young girl or boy whose name he’d never remember. If this was any other time the fixer might’ve been amused by this turn of events, it wasn’t as if he’d ever been sated by one person alone before. Only he was in no mood to sit about laughing. So when he heard the tell-tale click of the lock part of him wanted to up and leave, brush past John but that wouldn’t solve anything. Morte had heard the door too and had bounded off in his direction, Quin was less enthusiastic, “food’s on the table”.

  It wasn’t often that the fixer got himself worked up and nervous but never before had his anxieties included his brother, or at least not like this. The only time that cut close was that first evening of their reunion when Matteo revealed that he’d observed the psychobitch’s attack on him and simply did nothing. That cold empty quality to his voice as his brother told him love is a weakness. His anxieties from that night hadn’t disappeared (as he’d so foolishly hoped) no they’d increased threefold. Empty vacant stares as both of them had tried to engage his brother in conversation, polite or not. It wasn’t the lack of social etiquette that bothered him as Quin was hardly a picture of it himself but he knows all too well what Matteo is capable of.

 That scares him.

 So absorbed in thought that he’d forgotten about the dishes he was carrying and the location he was supposed to be taking them too. Just ended up leaving them precariously on the counter to leave him free to turn back on his heels, dark troubled eyes finding him quickly as if worried that with his back turned something might’ve happened. Was this what his life had come to? Officially taken up his role as the desperate worried housewife.

  “Hey –- my brother,” he’d hope that would be enough, even if it wasn’t by blood, but Quin was increasingly worried that wasn’t the case, “just be careful around him, alright?”

  He’s more dangerous than he looks.

  Only Quin’s thoughts had taken a different route now but no less troubling, the simple image of Matteo lurking in the shadows whilst John writhed in pain on the pavement. That he had the opportunity to help him, to be a decent man and he didn’t. The steely darkness that washed over his eyes that indicated something was ticking away beneath dark tousled curls. 

  Love is a weakness. Love is a weakness –- no.

  He’d gotten worried, the absences, the abrupt way their brief conversation had ended last time—not out of the ordinary for him but John had never been so flighty before. Always took time and patience to sit and talk with him, listened and mentored him through the lengthy period of recovery to fight. So he did the only thing he knew, he jacked into the net, delved deep until he found what he was looking for—jumped from one lead to another. Until he found an alarming collection of footage, half obscured by what he could only assume was graffiti on the camera’s lens. Trivial matters given what he could make out within the footage horrified him, a woman who was strangely familiar as if he’d seen her before was unleashing her demons—on John.

  Then it occurred to him why she was familiar, he ran a stream of data down the right side of his vision simultaneously checking he was right before jumping to conclusions. Unfortunately whilst he got his answer it was not the one he’d hoped for, the woman was none other than Wolverine, appeared in the news over half a decade ago. Real name Xiomara Attah, but they usually left that out of the reports liked to give her a name that made her a monster (and she was).

  The information dropped at that point and no amount of digging would incite anymore leads on her, she had simply disappeared—died according to the media. He knew better than to trust them, but it was sickening watching her beat into his friend—that glimmer of her green psychosquad patch on her sleeve. It seemed ridiculous, were the cops truly that desperate that they were hiring psychos to take down those that had one too many augments? The only possible reason he could conjure for it was that they were physically stronger, they knew themselves better than anyone else and thus they’d know their opponents. He’d watched the SWAT team over the years struggle to tame even the mildest of cyberpsychosis cases. Not everyone lost it, not everyone rampaged and raged against human flesh. It didn’t make them any less dangerous.

  He replayed the footage once and then twice, but that was more times that he could handle, it wasn’t simply the way his limp prone body was sprawled out across the floor afterwards—after she had simply taken off. It was the fact people saw what was going on and simply carried on walking, heads down and walking that little bit faster. Did they see the uniform and assume that John was the bad guy in all of this? What about when it was just him, alone and soaked in his own blood?

  It made his blood boil.

  Then as he worked his way through hospital records, he checked every single one in the city, he went on to check all their mortuary records too (just in case). There was nothing. The anger settled into a deep-rooted worry and after doing as much possible digging as he could, he left no stone unturned, he came back to the real world. Dion made sure to pull up his address before he jacked out and despite the fact it cost him a chunk of money he called for a taxi close to his home, but not directly outside. The rest of the way was short, he was lucky enough to slip into the building as someone left—breeze of cigarettes and gaudy aftershave that made his nose wrinkle.

  Unaware of the trouble he was about to stumble into he fought with his keys to get back into the apartment, apparently someone had heard his struggles and come bounding to the door so that when he tried to sneak in, it failed. Morte thereabouts tried to floor him and very nearly succeeded, but he managed to coax her quietly to get down. He ran a pale hand through the mess of white hair, spreading more glitter everywhere. Frankly he was a mess and there was no hiding it, he needed a hot shower but that meant creeping into the bedroom and his guilt was hugging closely to his chest, weighing his shoulders down as if he had rocks in his coat pockets.

  His mind had cleared enough through the haze of liquor and the exhilaration of loud thumping music that he now simply felt awful. If he was lucky John might’ve been busy most of the evening and if he was quick enough perhaps he could shower and slip into bed beside him, but that wouldn’t erase the guilt. It felt as though he was swimming, drowning slowly by his own hand.

  On totally silent feet he padded over to the sofa, peeling his coat off in the process and dumping it there—then his shirt and the rest of his clothing. Left to shiver in nothing but his boxers he made his way ever so slowly towards the bedroom, the door was shut, which wasn’t overly helpful for getting in quietly. Still he’d done his best thus far to be quiet, never had it occurred to him that he could simply go to one of the other apartments he still paid rent for and have a shower there before returning. Still it was the early hours of the morning, perhaps just perhaps, John wasn’t awake yet.

  Each day seemed to be a repeat of the last a strict regime that he stuck to without fail, up to do the first ‘run of the morning and then an afternoon in the gym followed by anymore work in the evenings. Someone had tasked him with cracking into local corporate netspace but it was proving harder than he’d first envisioned, netcop patrol was still heavy and then there was the matter of Hadley’s warning. He wasn’t scared, on the contrary it seemed to have pushed Dion to be more reckless and unforgiving in his attacks but he had to consciously remind himself to be careful. One small mistake could mean worse than time in jail, worse than even death.

  He was panting lightly, covered in a light sheen of sweat from sparring with one of the other gym members. Chest was sore and no doubt there’d be a patchwork of bruises across his ribs tomorrow but for now he was on a little adrenaline high. His opponent was clutching a towel, he felt the slight brush of it as he came over to say a polite good fight.

  In truth Dion hadn’t been close to winning but he was getting better, translating that passion and drive that he had on the net back into a physical realm was exhilarating. Brought a whole new kind of confidence to him that made him hold his head a little higher and back a little straighter.

  “How come you two haven’t talked lately?”

  He hadn’t known whom he meant and then as the conversation carried on, Dion only vaguely tuning in, he realised the man had meant John. It wasn’t that he was purposefully avoiding him, on the contrary he’d tried to reach him on more than one occasion but hadn’t got any answer. It worried him but there wasn’t much he could do, and after what had happened last time he just assumed John wanted space or something along those lines.

  “He’s here now you should go say hello kid.”

  Dion might’ve kicked up a fuss at being called kid yet again but he just uttered a single quiet question, where was he. It took him a few moments to collect himself and head in the general direction he’d been guided in, hoping that his opponent was right or this was going to be awfully awkward. “Uh—John?”

  “Hey, haven’t spoken in a while. How are you?”

  Evening had befallen the city and surprisingly the fixer was entirely sober, Quin had spent his afternoon doing a last minute job—that he’d forgotten about. It’d taken far long than he’d initially thought but eventually he tracked down the cheating wife and relayed all the information back to his client, a simple job but his concentration was lapsing all over the place as of late. Some days were easier than others, then some the weight of the surgeon’s disappearance (and likely death) along with John’s sentencing meant Quin’s attention span went from bad to worse.

  He’d almost missed the call hopping through the streets and back alleys trying to get out of the corporate controlled areas of the city, they were still pretty prickly about the curfew and the chip he carried didn’t seem to work half the time. At first he thought it was another surprise, little bit of spontaneous romance, which John seemed to be fond of. But it wasn’t and his stomach kept doing flips at just how off his voice sounded, strained and forced. Long pauses and gaps. Even through the phone he could hear how wet his voice was as if John was talking with a mouthful of milk.

  Quin had never ran so fast in his life, not even when he’d got chased through the streets one evening as a kid up in little Italy—some mobsters weren’t happy he’d been snooping around so he’d pelted down dark streets. The last words John had spoken before he’d gone totally silent, or the line might’ve dropped Quin didn’t have a clue, was a location and it was one he was familiar with. Just outside of a bar notorious for its clientele, veterans and solos alike tended to occupy it. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting but when he finally made it his heart sank.

  “Johnny—”

  His voice was breathy and shaken from running and the sheer sight of him, soaked in his own blood and scarcely able to open his eyes. In his fear the optic spluttered out immediately, Quin didn’t notice and he didn’t care, he fell down onto his knees beside him. “The fu—thought you were supposed to be good at fighting?” It was a dreadful attempt to find humour, unsure what to do he acted on impulse pulling his coat off to put it around him with gentle and careful hands.

  At first he simply hadn’t accepted it, refused to believe that he was gone, searched for him everywhere, sat and waited in his apartment or the hospital for him. Gone, without a trace. After one too many drinks Q had almost whipped up a storm in her presence, demanded to know where he was, but after the fire subsided a little he realised how foolish that was. No, he had to be smart about this. Each week that passed his hope diminished, he started to simply accept that Dante was gone. He had mourned the loss of his parents but that had been different, he’d been throw immediately into a situation that required his focus, couldn’t wallow in self-pity. Now Quin had nothing to do but wallow.