The Night Life (Closed to BaBE)

[Christoph]

All character changes, bunnying, different setting, and general ridiculousness (read: awesomeness) discussed and approved.

The faint glow of flickering candelabras washed over me as I strode silently between the pews of cathedral’s sanctuary. Their dancing light spawned mysterious phantoms of shadow in the furthest corners. Silence enveloped me, but I could almost hear the faint echoes of choir chanting and I imagined the dark, haunting tone of the grand pipe organ playing in devotion to God. By then, all of the last worshipers had gone home for the night and silence enveloped the entire empty sanctuary. I had never seen a chamber so massive; I felt that it might swallow me whole. The dim corners and shadowy recesses of the balconies seemed to go on forever.

I had never been particularly religious, but the stunning, grandiose beauty of the cathedral held me in awe; it truly lived up to its reputation of being one of the most beautiful churches in the country, certainly the greatest in the City of New York. While many other far larger structures surrounded the old cathedral, none could match its magnificence. Stunning paintings and tapestries covered the walls, adorned with holy symbols and the visages of saints. Glittering crystal chandeliers dangled from the high ceiling, glowing surreally in the candlelight.

My attention fell upon the altar, which dominated the far side of the sanctuary. I stared at the angelic vision of gold and marble, its brilliance reflecting in my eyes. Exquisite statues of archangels and of the Virgin Mary gazed back at me. Golden candles cast their radiance upon the enormous, elegant painting of Jesus and his Disciples behind the gilded altar. I felt more at ease then I had in months, and for a moment I wondered if maybe God did exist, if men would go to these great lengths to create such euphoric masterpieces in devotion to Him.

I heard slow, uneven steps behind me and I turned to find an elderly man wearing black and a white collar approaching me. He looked like a man who probably used to be very fit and trim in his earlier years, but had since fallen victim to his age. What little hair he had circled his scalp like a crescent moon and his wrinkled, lined face showed his years almost as much as his wise grey eyes. He smiled as he hobbled toward me on unsteady knees.

“Have you come for a late confession, my son?” he asked, his voice a little gravely, but warm, and possessing a slight hint of an Irish accent.

“Oh, no, Father,” I replied, smiling awkwardly. I sat down in the front pew and slouched wearily. “I just needed a quiet place out of the cold wind to collect my thoughts for a while.” That was only partly true.

“Ah, yes,” said the priest with a knowing nod. “This is as good a place as any. I am Father Dominic.” He held out his hand.

“My name is Jacob,” I answered, accepting the handshake. “It’s very beautiful here… and quiet.” I nodded in the direction of the giant painting. “And there’s good company in here, I suppose.” It was the closest I could come to a polite gesture.

The priest laughed softly. “My child, our Lord is always with you if you wish him to be.”

“Oh, yes of course, Father,” I replied with a weak smile.

“Well, you may stay as long as you like. If you need anything, or if you change your mind about a confession, you know where to find me.”

“Yes, thank you.” I sighed as he walked away, setting my gaze on the altar once again. In truth, despite the calm and peace, I felt out of place surrounded by such splendor. I had grown up as a lower-middle class kid in the Bronx, though that was actually pretty good compared to most of the people in my neighborhood. I felt out of my element being surrounded by priceless, beautiful things. Well, in truth there is another, more important reason that I felt anxious in a place of worship. The thought of how different my conversation with the priest would have gone if he’d known what I was made me shiver slightly.

My name is Jacob Rivers, and I am what most people what call a ‘psychic’. Not in the reading minds sense – I am more of the bending spoons variety: telekinesis. Only, I can bend things far, far bigger than cheap cutlery. I discovered my abilities right after my 17th birthday two years ago – the same week that I became ill with a new strain of virus that the doctors say will kill me in another two years at best. Yes, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But alas, I try to stay positive about it; I’ve even kept up with my martial arts instruction, hoping that it would help physically condition my body and fight against its deterioration. My sensei had always talked about achieving a “balance within my chi” or some such nonsense, and how it was supposed to help men heal from illness. It hasn’t helped terribly much yet. But hell, it’s better than curling up and waiting to die, right?

But I digress; most people don’t even believe that the powers I possess exist at all. On the whole, I am perfectly fine with that and have even taken some modest measures to keep them inconspicuous, though it’s gotten harder as they’ve become more powerful and harder to control. Holy men have made me uneasy, despite their wise and gentle demeanors. If that sounds silly, allow me to quote the following: “Suffer not the witch to live.” If I wouldn’t qualify as a ‘witch’ by biblical standards, then nothing would, and the more irrational side of me always fears the day an angry mob hunts me down with torches to ‘send me back to Hell’.

Thus, the grandest cathedral in New York would seem like one of the last places that I would be; that’s exactly why I came there. I hadn’t lied to Father Dominic when I said that I needed to collect my thoughts, but I hadn’t told him the whole truth either. It would be better for everyone involved if he didn’t know that I was hiding in his church. He didn’t need to know that I had somehow, beyond my knowledge, managed to piss off either some really powerful gang or a very secret government organization, or I forgot to pay my taxes.

It started two days before, when I got the sense that I was being followed. I kept seeing the same few people no matter where I went. The next day, I almost died from poisoned water; luckily, I had given water to my cat first that morning. Finally, this morning my car had been rigged to explode, which I only noticed because of luck and instinct. That’s when I fled, sneaking through allies and crowded subways for the entire day before arriving at this church. Here, I would be safe for at least a little while. I could have a moment’s peace and figure out what to do next. I would need a clear head, one not clouded by fear, if I wished to survive this ordeal. I might have only had two more years to live, but I would be damned if I’d let some slimy assassin steal them from me.

I sighed wearily and ran my fingers through my hair. It had gotten a bit too long and my sensei would surely bother me to get it cut… if I managed to see him again. I wondered how long I would be forced to lurk in the gutters, alleys, and churches with nothing but my wits and my heavy tan overcoat.

I looked at the altar once more, almost considering taking the priest up on his offer of confession. One never knew when they would get another chance to clear their conscience before whatever god up there that listened. Before I could continue the train of though further, the main doors behind me flew open with a loud creak and a gust of cold air. I spun around and my heart jumped into my throat.

“No… no, no…” I muttered, my voice barely above a desperate whimper as a stared at the dark, lithe silhouette in the doorway. It glared back with a cold malice that put the hairs of my neck on end. I knew this moment would come, but why so soon? One thought surged through the rest: I had to escape.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Man, it just had to be one of those stereotypical April nights. You know how it goes: Chilly enough to warrant wearing a thick jacket, the wind blowing hard enough to make you eyes tear up, and a slight, annoying drizzle of rain making everything wet. This wasn’t the kind of night I was terribly fond of when my boss decided that someone needed to be brought in. The department employed at least six other qualified individuals. Why’d it have to be me? I was getting ready to spend the night with a good bottle of scotch, a stack of Medeski Martin and Wood cds, and an old paperback copy of The Firm when I got the call.

“Freebird.” The forceful, gruff voice of my boss greeted me on the other end. I hate my last name. I hate it when people call me by my last name. I hate my parents for getting their legal name changed to Freebird. I hate the marijuana and their obsession with a certain southern rock band and an overrated song that gave them the idea in the first place.

“What,” I replied.

“Rivers has been spotted heading towards St. Patrick’s Cathedral. You’re the agent closest to him. Head on over there and do whatever it takes to take him down.”

And with the violent hanging up of a telephone receiver, my night was officially shot.

Cursing up a storm, I set about tearing through my apartment on Murray Hill for my gear. My wallet and badge were scattered about on my dresser, amongst a pile of spare change and other junk. My gun, a spiffy Smith & Wesson Model 19 that once belonged to an uncle of mine, was nestled safely in its shoulder holster that hung on a hook on the inside of my closet door.. A quick check verified that the chamber was packing six .357 cartridges. I passed up on the idea of bringing more ammunition with me--on any given chase such as this, I rarely ever had to fire more than three rounds. Tonight was probably going to be no different. My hundred-foot cable of flexible steel wire was coiled up neatly on a hook next to the firearm.

It wasn’t long after that I was blasting through New York City, dodging deranged cars barely doing 20 up Madison Avenue. I took a quick left on East 51st, the tires on my Cutlass Supreme skidding to a stop on the rain-slick asphalt outside the renowned St. Patrick’s Cathedral. As I stepped out of my car, I took a deep breath. New York City was teeming with life around me. Despite the annoying drizzle, there was no shortage of people milling about. Businessmen and women with umbrellas, chatting away on their cell phones with their fancy Bluetooth headsets--you know, the type that make you wonder if they’re on the phone or talking to the voices in their heads. Street vendors, trying to peddle their fake Rolex watches and all-beef hot dogs. City folk.

My worn black Chuck Taylors (bad idea to wear on a rainy day, as I have found out on a few occasions) barely made a sound as I crossed the street toward the house of God that towered above me. The sharp angles that littered the building’s décor were threatening in the dull neon lights of the city. The two spires at the front of the cathedral stood tall enough to pierce the sky. The light coming from within shone through the gigantic glass windows above me, casting off the impressive flower-like design of its frame. Such an innocent, splendid place… I was actually starting to feel bad that Jacob Rivers chose this spot to be brought in. If he’s as dangerous a psychic as I’ve been hearing from the boss, then there was a lot of valuable religious shit that was about to be torn up.

I slowly climbed the seven smooth stone steps that led to the tremendous oak doors. I took a second to make sure I was prepared. Gun; check. Wire; check. Self composure; check. Placing both hands on the door, I gave a mighty shove. The monoliths opened with a mighty creak, revealing the dimly-lit interior of St. Peter’s. The cathedral was lined with two columns of pews that stretched from the back wall all the way to the altar. Thick columns of stone were placed every twenty or so feet to support the structure. One of them even had a marble effigy of the Virgin Mary hung from the side. Numerous candelabras were lit, giving the place a warm, sacred glow.

Jacob Rivers sat in front of me. The tan overcoat, the tuft of dark hair, the sickly, palely skin, the “deer in headlights” look on his face upon seeing me; there was no mistaking it. I remembered his face clearly from the pictures that the boss gave me once I started following him. I decided to waste no time. Reaching inside my black leather jacket, I tore my Model 19 out of its holster and aimed it squarely between the boy’s eyes. I caught Jacob rising up from his seat and taking off, ducking his head real low. I left the priest’s question unanswered and followed my target’s movements. A quick pull of the trigger; a flash of the muzzle. Jacob waved a hand through the air, redirecting its path. The .357 round instead went through one of the eye sockets of the Mary statue, sending shattered stone every which direction.

“Fuckin’ shit,” I muttered to myself as Jacob Rivers broke every natural law possible to cheat death. The scrawny bastard was galloping towards a door that led up one of cathedral’s towering spires. I quickly wove in between the pews in chase. Rivers was quick, given his rumored health condition. He threw open the door and began clamoring up the staircase, with me in close pursuit.

“Get your scrawny ass back here!” My venomous threats echoed up the tower. Rivers, already a good forty feet above me, foolishly leaned over the railing to check on my progress. I quickly raised my gun at his face and fired off two shots. Both were again deflected, and I could hear the sound of his footsteps slamming against the hard stone stairs.

By the time I got to the top of the staircase myself, I was feeling a little winded. Running full speed up several hundred feet of steps can take a lot out of someone, even if they’re in top physical form like myself. In front of me was a closed door--with Rivers waiting like the cornered dog that he was on the other side. I readied my gun and threw open the door. I was greeted with a telekinetic pull that swept me into the room, slamming me face first into the stone wall on the far end. The impact knocked the wind out of me. Behind me, I could hear the light, quick footsteps of someone as if they were trying to escape the room. I twisted around on the floor, getting a good glimpse of Rivers trying to flee. I raised a free arm, sending one end of my wire after him. The steel cable snaked through the air, wrapping itself tight around his ankle. I gave a quick tug, and took Jacob’s leg out from underneath him. The boy crashed to the stone floor with a heavy thud. Painfully, I rose to my feet and strode over to him, releasing him from my wire once I grabbed him by the throat. My chest throbbed in pain as I dragged him back into the small room at the top of the tower.

Just then, in a vain effort to stave off death, Jacob quickly composed himself and thrust his foot into my shin. Not the most elegant of techniques, but it sure as hell worked. I reflexively let go of him, and within a split second he was on his feet, firing off a roundhouse kick to my face.

His technique… There was something familiar about it. The arc at which his foot was poised to strike me… It was the same way I had learned to kick someone’s teeth out a good fifteen years ago. What was my teacher’s name again… Ah, fuck it. Got too much other shit to worry about right now.

I put up my forearms to block the strike. His foot rebounded, and I used the opportunity to position myself in front of him, grabbing the boy by his scrawny neck. Forcefully, I drove him into the window that separated us from the bleak night of the city outside. His head smashed into the glass, cracking his skull more than it did the window. He went limp in my arms. Acting quickly, I picked my gun off the floor, firing two shots into the window to soften it up a bit.

Hey, my boss had said after all to take him down, not to bring him in.

Two strong slams of Jacob’s head later, the window gave out. Thin shards of glass fell hundreds of feet onto the street below. A few civvies looked up to see what had happened, just as I threw Jacob out of the window, sending him head-first to the concrete below.

[Christoph]

Pain pulsed through my body as I plummeted through the frigid air within a swirling psychedelic cloud of fragmented glass. My coast rippled violently against my slight frame, like a flag left up in a thunderstorm. The moment seemed to linger on as I spun controllably and inexorably toward a very painful, very messy demise on the street below. A lesser man might have just given up, and I confess that I too felt the cold clutch of despair for the slightest instant. I refused to die that way. I would not meet my end at the hands of some shady assassin!

I focused my will with this defiance and resolve to survive. A fleeting throb pulsed in my skull as the psychic energy surged through me; using my own body as an anchor, I send a wave of telekinetic force into the swiftly approaching pavement. Instead of adding a fresh abstract painting to the sidewalk, I came within two meager feet of the ground and then seemed to bounce harmlessly off of thin air, before floating gently and smugly the rest of the way down.

Every hotdog vendor and nocturnal punk rocker on the street was staring at me, but I ignored them, content to give them something to blog about the next day. I glared up at the bitch who had thrown me. Her cocky grin had already faded from her pale face and I felt momentary satisfaction. It didn’t last, of course. She sprang from the giant window frame and repelled down the cathedral’s outer wall with condescending ease, coming to finish the job.

And then I ran. I could hear sirens blaring off in the distance. Lovely, getting involved with the authorities was the last people I needed. I darted off as fast as my skinny legs could carry me, down an unused street and away from people.

When fleeing from something, anything, the most common instinct is to run as fast as possible and never look back. This instinct harkens back to the dawn of mankind. It was rarely even a viable tactic for escaping a hungry saber-tooth tiger, let alone for when being pursued by a professional assassin through some abandoned streets of nighttime Manhattan. Not that I’d ever gotten any experience with either of those situations before; I just possessed a valuable dose of rationality that said to glance back and make sure that sneaky bitch was still behind me.

She wasn’t.

Shit! I cursed furiously under my breath as dread drowned out my fleeting sense of satisfaction at having noticed her absence. I stopped dead in my tracks, which was really the stupidest thing I could have done.

Silence draped itself over the abandoned alley like a mortuary sheet, choking me. I felt painfully exposed. The ominously dark windows gazed down at me like sunken cadaverous eyes; I shivered and not entirely from the wind cutting through my coat. My pulse pounded annoyingly between my ears, making it difficult to listen for my would-be attacker. I wanted to run, to get out of there. Why did I stop like that? Stupid, stupid! Was I trying to get myself killed?

I caught a glimpse of gunmetal. I froze.

Guns are fast, unforgiving weapons that forever streamlined the act of killing, making the process seemingly instantaneous. Seemingly. The only thing even more instantaneous than a bullet was a thought. That was all I needed. That was all I had. The shot rang out, and then another and another, and I deflected each one before it got within three feet of me. Well, not so much deflected so much as batted them aside so that they sailed harmlessly around me. It only required a fraction of the effort to redirect a moving object as stopping it outright. Before I could reminisce on the laws of physics, the murderous woman lunged from the third-story window in an irritatingly impressive display of acrobatics.

Years’ worth of martial arts training and hundreds of hours of rigorously boring katas suddenly paid off as I reflexively guarded against the woman’s vicious onslaught. She lashed out with a furious barrage of punches and kicks, forcing me to give ground as I desperately fended off the attacks. Now, I had a few years worth of martial arts lessons under my belt and though I’d never been in a real life-or-death fight before, I fancied myself fairly competent in the realm of melee combat despite the physical limitations brought on by my illness. I realized how much I still had to learn.

Compared to this shady assassin, I was still a novice. She moved like a ninja, and not a fake movie ninja with flashy moves and stances that look like a crane or a mantis. A real ninja. Every strike, every step… every bloody twitch was deadly efficient. I didn’t even have a chance to realize how much she outclassed me before I felt her bony knuckles drive repeatedly into my torso I crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, writing in pain, and feeling acutely aware of my own frailty.

Yeah, a girl was beating me up. I’ll have to wear flannel for a month straight to regain my masculinity.

She kicked me hard in the ribs a few times as she crammed another bullet into her over-compensatory revolver. She aimed it at my skull, and looked like she was about to say something. I growled and grabbed her ankle, pulled, and twisted hard. She let out an unflattering grunt and toppled to the pavement. I spun into action, all pretenses of gentlemanlike conduct gone, and pummeled her abdomen before she could get back up. She caught me in the jaw with a left hook, but without leverage, the blow carried little force with it. I gripped her throat and slammed her back down onto concrete.

“I prefer being on top, thank you,” I condescended, right before she kneed me squarely in the grown and threw me off.

I do have a way with the ladies.

The fact that I deserved it notwithstanding, that cheap shot really pissed me off. I was angry, I was in serious pain, and I was desperate. . And most of all, I was damn tired of getting beaten around. I had an edge against my attacker, and with no people in sight, nothing was stopping me from using it.

I let my rage burn through the pain and I lashed out with the telekinetic version of a giant drunken punch, multiplied by fifteen. The assassin flew backward into a brick wall, as though she had been struck by an invisible car. I could hear her cursing and swearing as we both climbed to our feet again. I smirked and attacked again. This time, I felt a stab of resistance, and she slid back a mere few feet. I felt dread clawing up inside my chest. While using my telekinesis against living, moving targets had always proved more challenging, this felt different. I could sense psionic energy radiating off of my attacker, subtle but unmistakable. My dread multiplied; I was fighting another telekine.

In desperation, I lashed out with another wave of telekinetic force, but her efficient defense cut through it like the prow of a ship. I resisted panic as she charged toward me like a hunting panther. Thinking fast, I backpedaled and focused my will once again – not on my attacker, but on a metal trash can off to the side. I hurled it vigorously into her legs, sending her toppling. And once again, I ran.