Cold Iron Crossing

By Cole Leone

#

Episode 1:

“Pilot”

In a cold neighborhood full of dark hearts and darker magic, where justice is a joke and physics a mere suggestion, only one man has the poker face and killer hand to deal out payback:

Dieselnoi Worawoot. Magic Private Eye.

Ka-pow! Brass horns. Bass line. Wha-wha petal. Roll credits.

…

Is that who you think you are? The star of this show? Savior to the downtrodden souls of Cryptatown?

I want to vomit. I want to laugh. But all I can do is wait. Wait in the darkness, wait for the day your putrid idiocy destroys everything you love and sets me free!

On that day, as I rise from the depths to take you, I will laugh!  

Do you hear me?

Ha!

 Ha!

Ha-- !

#

You wake up.

Golden light peaks through your window. Off in the distance, you hear screams as the Bale Crows pluck apart a victim, offering their entrails to the rising sun.

You do not rise from bed so much as roll out of it. You yawn, stretch, throw on a robe and rub the dust from your eyes.

You look at your dresser. Your porkpie hat and keys are just where you left them. The clock reads a quarter past 10.

You panic. You’re late! You’ll have to skip breakfast to make it—

--no, you tell yourself. It’s a Saturday. It’s a lazy day.

You shuffle over to your kitchen nook, pawing through unwashed cups until you find one that has some leftover black. You sip the coffee.

Surprisingly average.

As you start to wake up, you squint, examining the silver circuit-lines that pulsating across kitchen wall like mildew.

The nanobots haven’t spread much, you conclude. The earth won’t dissolve into grey goo just yet.

You check on the Yantras painted around your door frame, swirling symbols of animals, gods and geometry.

They’re all intact. Nothing broke in while you slept and laid eggs in your ear.

Morning rituals complete, you glance out your flat’s window, ready to greet a lovely day.

You see a hulking Ogre standing in the middle of the street, beating a wrinkled old man to death with his own cane.

And to think.

For a moment, you believed you could idle the morning away at your favorite cafe, nibbling a pastry and reading the news on your phone.

Adorable.

You grab your sword from the rack over your bed: A Han Dynasty ’Jian’, 100 cm of straight bronze, doped with copper sulfide to prevent corrosion.

It’s a priceless, irreplaceable relic that should be nestled on soft velvet in a museum display case. This makes it perfect for the battles you fight.

You risk another glance out the window.

The Ogre’s still beating his victim, a silver-haired man with a trim beard and a fraying comb over. The old man curls up on the ground like a shell bug, yelping as the blows rain down.

The Ogre doesn’t care about the man’s age or lack of resistance. He just keeps swinging, grey, pointy face twisted with fury. Impressive stamina, considering he’s as gaunt and skinny as a famine victim.

Across the street, a little girl and woman in nurse’s scrubs watch this mugging with open-mouthed horror. Their spotted dog barks and strains at his leash.

May the ogre will leave after beating the old man to death, you think. Maybe he won’t turn his rage on the mother, the daughter and their little dog too.

Somehow, you doubt it.

You decide. You don’t have time to take the stairs. You slide open your apartment’s window and take a few steps back--

Wait! You almost forgot something!

You pluck the porkpie hat from your coat stand and fix it onto your head.

Much better.

You run across the span of your cramped flat and dive out the open window. You fall towards the asphalt below, fresh, black and newly paved.

You touch your sword’s hilt, spells from your father springing to your lips:

Ong Phra.

Paet-thit.

Yot Mongkut.

You add a few more spells, new spells you helped beta test:

Zephyra.

Sunderga.

 Magic drips from your fingers, flowing like ink into the swirls of your Han dynasty Jian. The sword leaps from the sheath in your hand and soars down.

You land on your sword with your bare feet, balanced on the flat of sharpened bronze.

You surf through the air, soaring towards the Ogre like the world’s most extreme skateboarder.

You leap off, hit the ground, tuck and roll, reflexes carved into your nerves by months of parkour classes. You raise your open hand. Your sword flies back around and slaps into your palm hilt-first.

The Ogre’s back is turned. You put a jaunty grin on your face and open your mouth to ask the Ogre if he’s a gambling man.

The nurse draws a pistol from her purse and clicks the safety off.

The Ogre freezes mid-strike, wooden cane raise over his greasy locks of hair.

"Step away from that man!" The nurse tells the Ogre, aiming for his eyes. "Fortuna," she tells her daughter, "stay behind me and call 911."

"Yes, Mom!" Fortuna says, dialing the number on her purple-cased phone. The spotted pit-bull crouches by her side, jowls flapping as she snarls at the ogre.

The Ogre’s pointed ears fold back. He stares at the nurse and her semi-auto. He smiles. He laughs.

"Human sow," he says with contempt. "Keep up your irons, lest I bust a cap in thy punk ass."

"Try it," the nurse replies, "and I will shoot you in the face. If that doesn’t kill you…”

She dips the barrel of her gun.

“…I’ll switch to other targets,” she says quietly.”

The Ogre twitches, hand making a reflexive motion towards the fly of his acid-washed jeans.

Neither nurse nor Ogre has noticed you yet. As embarrassing as that is, it gives you opportunities.

You creep forward, bare feet making no noises on the spongy asphalt. Three more steps and you’ll be in range.

Little Fortuna holds her ringing phone up to her ear. “Hello?” She says.

“You see?” Fortuna’s mother says. “"The police are already on their way." She raises her eyebrow at the Ogre. "Is that old man really worth prison?"

The Ogre chortles again. "Foolish filly," he says to the soccer mom. "Look around you. Do you think this place has cops?"

The nurse glances away from the Ogre. She spots you. Her eyes widen in surprise.

You raise a finger to your lips.

The nurse’s eyes narrow in understanding.

You aren’t worried about the Ogre catching on. Judging from his soft purring, he probably thinks the nurse is shocked by her surroundings.

By the wrought-iron gas lamps lining the street, for instance.

Or the murders of crows perched on the trees and cell-towers, each one wearing a tiny top hat.

Or the spray-painted mural behind you, with illustrated firefighters and construction workers that move, that pound on the brick wall, that silently scream to be let out.

"This is Cryptatown. The monster’s town," The Ogre tells the soccer mom, no small amount of smug in his voice. "No law lives here but Law of Claw."

He raises his foot and holds it over the old man’s neck; a single step, and the man gets pulped like a grape.

The nurse pales. The barrel of her gun wobbles briefly.

"Think ye can place me under citizens arrest?" the Ogre says, briefly adopting a twangy southern accent. “Think the mayor will give thee a shiny badge?”

You take another step forward. Almost in range…

"Once I kill ye..." The Ogre starts to say.

His voice trails off. He stares down at the beaten old man, pointy ears flicking back and forth.

"...Once I kill ye," he repeats with more venom, "ain’t no fool’s gonna remember your deeds."

The nurse lowers her gaze, starring at her little girl. Fortuna clings to her mother’s scrubs with one arm and her dog’s leash with the other.

"That’s why I’ve got to do it anyway," the nurse says, squeezing the trigger of her gun.

The Ogre’s kneecap--the one ready to flex and crush the old man’s throat--explodes into wet chunks.

The Ogre screams and falls forward. As the ogre falls forward, he raises a curled claw and sings a song of one note.  

A sword made of green flame sears to life within his hand, long, cross-guarded, tongues of fire sharp as razors.

As the ogre falls forward, his fire-sword falls onto the foolish--

The brave, you think.

--the brave nurse.

You rear back and throw your sword. You whisper your special line, your personal mantra and call to action:

"All In.”

Your Chinese Jian spins through the air like a boomerang. It passes through the ogre’s flame sword, azure light flashing as your Sunder enchantment discharges.

What happens when the magic forcing several kilograms of flame into the shape of a sword get dispelled?

Simply put, the fire does what fire does best.  

The ogre howls as green flames pour over his hand, sizzling flesh and hair.

The nurse pushes her daughter out of the way. The Ogre eats concrete. The nurse holds her gun out in a shooter’s stance and fires again, punching holes in the ogre’s skull, ribs and spines.

The ogre rolls onto his back, snuffing out his burning hand underneath his acid-washed jeans.

"Human!" He growls. "Ass-face! I’ll crack your bones--!"

The pit-bull breaks free from the girl’s grip, runs forward and sinks his jaws into the ogre’s ankle.

The ogre screams and dissolves, its flesh peeling apart into a cloud of autumn leaves. These crimson leaves swirl away like a school of fish and vanish around the street corner.

You raise your hand. Your sword boomerangs back round and returns to your hand.

“It’s dangerous to go alone,” you whisper. “Take this.”

The nurse takes deep breaths, sweat staining her blouse collar. Her eyes lock on you.

You tense.

The nurse clenches her teeth and gives you a nod.

"Mom?" Fortuna calls from behind the trashcan. "I can’t get a signal!"

"Keep trying, sweetie!" The nurse calls back. "Who are you?" She asks you, flicking her pistol’s safety and dropping it back in her purse.

You sheath your magic sword and run a finger along the porkpie hat’s brim.

"The name’s Diesel, ma’am,” you say in your best gumshoe voice. “Dieselnoi Worawoot, at your service…”

"Holy hells!" The nurse curses, rushing past you and kneeling "Are you alright?" She asks the old man

Give yourself a mental kick. Of course! The old man! The battered, old man you’d completely forgotten in your attempt to be suave.

The nurse, who hasn’t forgotten basic ethics, unzips her jersey and slips it under the old man’s head. "Can you hear me, sir?" She whispers. "We’re going to get you help. What’s your name?”

The old man’s closed eyes flutter.  “Mercer…” he wheezes.

"I have an EMT kit upstairs," you say.

The nurse’s eyes lock onto yours. "Then go get it!" She urges you.

You rush back to your building’s door. You grasp the round doorknob. It clicks and refuses to turn. You reach for your apartment keys.

The keys you didn’t grab when you jumped out the window.

You look up at your open windowsill, three stories up from the ground floor, distant from any convenient buttress or drainage pipes to climb.

"Shit!"

No time. No time to kick yourself or buzz the landlord to get the door open.

You draw your sword. "Sunderga," you whisper, coating your blade with a sundering spell. You tap the doorknob with your sword’s tip.

The doorknob splits into its component parts, plates, screws and lock clattering onto the unwelcome mat.

One act of forced entry later, you rush out the street, EMT bag in your hand, oxygen cylinder clattering as you drag it down the steps.

Fortuna presses two tiny fingers against Mr. Mercer’s neck, checking his pulse for Mommy. Their pit-bull contributes by licking the old man’s hand.

Fortuna looks up as you bring your EMT kit over. “Uh,” the little girl says meekly. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say back, pulling an oxygen mask from you kit and hooking it to the cylinder.

“What the hell is this place?” The nurse asks you, checking the old man’s pupils. "Why can’t we call the cops?"

"Like that guy said,” you tell her, “cops don’t come here.”

You slip the oxygen mask over the old man’s face and loosen a valve. Air hisses. The old man’s breathing steadies. “They don’t even know about this place.”

The nurse closes her eyes and nods. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. We need to get this man to the nearest hospital.”

“There’s no official hospital here,” you explain, pursing your lips in thought. ”Well, the Anarchists run a free clinic.”

Nurse’s lips press together. "Explain," she says.

You unzip your lumpy medic bag. The nurse paws through it, plucking out bandages and splints.

"It’s like this, ma’am," you tell her.

“Fausta," Soccer Mom clarifies as she fishes out gauze.

"Fausta," you echo, waving your hand around at the surrounding street. “You know how Chicago’s neighborhoods tend to divide along ethnic and cultural lines? Chinatown, Greektown, Bronzeville?”

“Yes…?” Fausta the nurse replies cautiously.

You spread your hands, gesturing at everything in the street—the apartments, the warehouses, the storefronts with glowing security runes on the windows, the trees and alleys from where glowing eyes watch.

“Well,” you say cheerfully, “this is the Monster’s neighborhood!”

You wait for Fausta and Fortuna to freak out, to go into denial, to tell you how that’s impossible. They might even take their fear and panic out on you, but you tell yourself to be patient and understanding…

"That explains the giant," Fausta muses thoughtfully. She turns back to old man Mercer and feeling his leg for breaks. “That’s doesn’t explain how me and Fortuna stumbled in here.”

Oh.

“Don’t you remember, mom?” Fortuna blurts out. “When Cookie got off-leash, we chased him through that Alley.” Fortuna’s eyes widen dramatically. “It had these biiiiiiiiig mushrooms,” she whispers.

The old man coughs hoarsely beneath you. His eyes snap open. "Philip..." he wheezes, trying to rise. "Philip...!"

"Sir!" Fausta says, resting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. "Don’t move; you’ve got at least three fractures!"

The old man’s cloudy eyes clear up. He seizes Fausta’s wrist. "Save him," he pleads. "Save my son."

Your blood runs cold. The ogre must have taken his son, you realize. And when the poor old man tried to object...

"You need treatment now, sir," Fausta tells him. Her expression turns hard as iron. "But I promise we’ll find the ogre that took your son."  You see her large, pearly-white teeth clench. “He won’t get away with this,” she growls.

"No!" The old man blurts out, struggling against Fausta’s hand.

Little Fortuna flinches back, wrapping her arms around her pit-bull’s neck for comfort

The old man shakes his head violently. "Don’t," he moans. "Don’t hurt him. He’s...he’s just confused."

You look down at the old man—at Mercer—with disbelief and growing sense of anger.

"Don’t hurt the ogre?" you exclaim. “I’m all for turning the other cheek, but c’mon! He took your son!"

"No," the old man says, shaking his head again.

Fausta’s face pales. Fortuna looks confused. Cookie the pitbull whimpers softly in his master’s grip.

"Wait, wait, wait," you say, pinching your nose. "I’m completely lost. Did the ogre kidnap Philip or not?"

You still don’t realize.

Honestly. The nurse understands. Even the dog figured it out.

Do they have to spell it out for you?

 Do I have to spell it out for you, Ruesi?

…

…

Ah.

Ahhhhhh.

Now you get it.  Don’t you feel like a fool? A wretched, blind fool?  

"The ogre’s your son," you say to the man. "He’s Philip."

The old man shivers. "He’s a good boy," he repeats desperately. "He’s just misunderstood."