#it's still something of an insight into how Nickelport works

[thenickelportrust]

Morgan Sharp

The fact that it's five in the afternoon does little to quell the general air of discomfort that permeated the four faded white-blue walls of the room. Normally, by this time, Eleanor would be packing her computer into her bag- an overstuffed, dingy black thing with a broken zipper, frayed edges, and a tiny rooster keychain she brought back from a trip to some resort in the Caribbean. Similarly, the smells of coffee would fill the cramped quarters of Nickelport’s Easter Bay Police HQ, the familiar bitter scent of Mikel preparing for the evening shift, and the rest of the office clustering around the origin of the scent like a cloud of hungry blue-clad pigeons. The thing that brought me the most joy, and what keeps five in the afternoon near to my heart, however, was the fact that five in the afternoon was when I left. Normally.

Cristina McDonall, as she introduced herself in rapid, muddled words, was a forty year old woman with the energy, and paranoia, of a fresh college graduate. She had dark rings, purple bag dangling from lidded brown eyes, and deep wrinkles made more prominent by the deep-seated frown plastered on her face by a recent cruel turn of fate. Her button-nose is red and as swollen as her dilated eyes. Bow-knuckled hands wave about her face, tucking back a stray strand of starch-colored hair here, patting away rebellious tears there, wiping mucus leaks everywhere. She wears a flower-print dress with distractingly bright blooms, and a cheerful bird pin holds her hair away from her face while tiny, dangling faux-diamond earrings clink joyously against her neck as it bobs visible while she swallows and chokes on her words.

“Are you listening, sir?” My eyes able back to hers- searching my face in jolted, flickering motions.

“Yes.” I speak through interlaced hands, my nose resting against my knuckles. She remains silent.

Slowly, my shoulders rise with a deep breath. Exhaling over my hands, I release their grip on one another and slide the photo away from the underside of the manilla folder, more such pictures spilling out from its belly, the tape that held it neatly together ripped open like a wound. Along with the photos come the case file reports, family testimonies, and the two eye-witness records. I flip the lamented square onto its white back, the black-and red, boiled, peeling face of a fourteen year old boy stares back at me. Through the door I hear the office fan splutter and die, followed by the dull thud of a foot connecting with machinery, and Mikel’s agitated cursing. I slide the photo back into the folder.

“As of right now, Mrs. McDonall-”

“Ms.”

“What?”

“Ms… Ms. McDonall,” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, making loud, grating squeaks against the floor. “My husband and I split two years ago- Daniel carries his name, legally.”

My hands fold in on themselves one more, squeezing together against the cool of the fold-up table, a small ache pools in my back. “Which does he go by?” Ms. McDonall looks sheepish.

“Mine, usually.”

I sit back in the chair, forcing my fingers apart and drumming them against the top arrhythmically. The fan starts up again, purring loudly. Mikel whoops, victorious.

“Well, Ms. McDonall,” I push forward once more, “As of right now, we have no new information on the whereabouts of your son-”

“Nothing?”

“- But we’ll be sure to contact you once we hear something more substantial-”

“I don’t want substance-”

“- Until then I’m obligated to reiterate that popping into our office without a precursory office call-”

“-I want Daniel back, officer-”

“- Will only hinder our investigation-”

“-I want to know where he is-”

“- And makes it-”

“- I want to know what happen to my son-”

“- More difficult for us to find him.”

“I want him back!”

Silence cakes the space between us. Water pools in her eyes and leaks down her cheeks, reflecting the fluorescent lights above. Her lips move, but I can barely catch the words as they leave her mouth. “Please find my son.”

“If you have any more information on what happened, Ms. McDonall, you can call our offices.”

---------

Sunlight streamed through the gap between the flimsy white curtains. Pale orange, the last life sapped from winter’s weakened yellow eye. I run my hands once more over the manilla envelope, eight photos, four angles- front, side, side, back- two for each boy. There are also four large white papers shoved neatly inside- the official report, the Pestia family testimony on their son, the little email printed out with their refusal to meet in person glaringly obvious at the top, and, finally, two “witness” accounts that differ so greatly I’m not entirely sure that one is for another murder that the Nickelport East Bay Police Department has yet to find out about. I reread over one of these reports, the one that seems to match the photos, once more.

A fisherman, gave his name as Illal Monk, reported feeling a blast of hot air and hearing a loud boom, like an explosion, coming from the area near where the construction site for a new warehouse building at around six in the afternoon. He originally brushed it off as construction work and went back to gutting tuna in his rented-out shack by the water, but Illal Monk noticed something strange. Silence. No clanging metal beams or shouting workers in neon yellow hardhats, no beeping machinery or whirring engines. Silence. Thinking something had gone wrong at the site, Illal Monk headed over at about six thirty in the afternoon. The orange vests were hung up beyond the chain link fence, the machines towered in silent sentry, the transportable storage closets were shacked up and closed, and none of the dirty, heavy burning-oil scent was to overpower the salty sea-breeze. Illal Monk at this point considered turning around and heading back when he noticed a different smell. A smell that could never be washed away or buried, the kind that sticks to your skin and will cling to your clothes twenty years later. The smell of burning human flesh.

Illal Monk called the N.E.B.P.D at six forty-five in the afternoon.

“Knock knock,” Mikel popps his tan head into the quarter-open doorway, a bright and unconcerned grin on his face. “Staying in all the way today, Cap’n?” He shoulders it open the rest of the way, toting two white coffee cups in his hands.

“Regrettably,” I shuffle Illal Monk and the boys back into their manilla folder.

Mikel places the cups down with a happy plunk, “Got caught trying to sneak out of the house, eh Morgan?” His knowing, self-assured smirk is a relaxing ripple of normalcy in today’s otherwise eerie still…

“I’m allowed to take a lunch break, Mikel.” Calming, infuriating normalcy.

“Yeah.. but at five?” Mikel’s white-toothed grin is hidden behind a frown, his floppy, sweeping black hair bobs above his brows as she shakes his head, “And you drag poor Ellie out with you everytime… When do you eat dinner, anyway? Eleven? One in the morning?”

“When Eleanor eats is her decision.” My eyes flitter up to Mikel’s, which are quirked in that lopsided, sharply curious way. “And I don’t eat dinner.”

-----

Jay Pestia was the second oldest of the four at fifteen. He had sandy blonde hair, baby-peach skin, and a crooked smile filled with bright silver braces. The braces apparently melted to his gums somewhere in the midst of the attack. He wore size thirteen shoes but his toes would still often back black and blue from being pressed against the sneaker-tops. He’d been at school, Three-Stands Preparatory High School, playing viola in the third-floor jazz band room. He sat in the back.

He sat in the back because he had a track record at the principal’s office. He sat in the back because the teacher would always yell at him for not paying attention and would scream at him for missing his cues. He sat in the back because stage fright made his fingers stiff and numb. He sat in the back because the window was there. He at in the back because his music notebook was always filled with doodles of the bird in the nest outside the window. He sat in the back because he named them. He sat in the back because he could talk to them.

Jay Pestia had cloudy blue eyes and thick-rimmed glasses and freckles splattered across his nose. Jay Pestia left school at four in the afternoon to meet his three best friends after school, like every other day. Jay Pestia’s body was thrown over the chain-link fence and caught three feet up on one of the exposed beams, his left arm was found five feet away from the rest of him.

Jay Pestia was left handed.

----

It took all of two seconds after she was let in for Eleanor to lock onto the coffee cups, one of which had been drained during the reading of the Pestia family’s email.

“When Mikel walked in here with two cups I assumed one of them was for himself.” Eleanor’s hazel eyes fill with an unspoken question.

“I’m fine.”

“For now,” Eleanor folded her long, slender arms across her chest. She has a ballerina’s face, pinch-pot prim and expressionless. “When was the last time you ate something?”

“I just had coffee.”

“Ate, not drank, ate.” Eleanor’s thin eyebrow drifts up her forehead, sending wrinkles through the pale-pink canvas of skin. “Sharp?” Slowly, the other eyebrow rises to join its sister, simultaneously pushing away the corners of Eleanor’s lips. “Morgan?”

“Did you ever get in contact with the Laurens on their statements, Eleanor?” Her head hangs, auburn braid drifting lethargically over her shoulder.

“No, sir, but I can call them again?” I nod, gratefully mumbling a thank you as I bring the second cup of coffee up to my lips.

“Get some lunch afterwards,” I add on as the door slowly creaks closed, then open, as Eleanor’s defiant, disbelieving exterior makes an appearance once more.

“Fine,” She raises her pointed chin, “But I’m bring you back some food, too. And you will eat it, Sharp. Even if I need to get Mikel’s help, I swear, we will make you eat something.” Eleanor Pike slams the door closed.

----

Dominic Kim Laurens never went by his full name. But, that lack of a full name was more than covered for by a plethora of nicknames. His friends called him “Dom”, his teammates “The Dom”, his girlfriend June either called him “Nicci”, “Domi”, or “Baby”, and his parents most often called him “Dominic Kim”, which while included his full name was not as much, by virtue of being more than just plain-old “Dominc”.

His room was messy with photos taken by others of him. Dom by the sea, with his swimming trousers still stuck to his thighs, black hair damp and drying in wild, messy clumps sticking up and down and this way and that. The Dom scoring the winning shot at the homecoming basketball game, his just-ever-so-slight, fading summer tan on his otherwise pale-ish beige skin shining with a fresh sheen of sweat, already dark, close-set rounded eyes made black by focus on the net. Domi and Junebug, celebrating their second anniversary with a homemade candlelit dinner, insisted upon by June’s mother, where he sits with a smile as big and bright as the moon and rivaled only by June’s own. Then, tucked away in the back corner of the room, atop a desk next to splayed writing materials, a closed laptop, and a haphazard stack of old textbooks were two instances of Dominic Kim. A baby with his mother’s lips pressed to his cheek, crinkled in the midst of joyous, uncaring laughter, and a young man celebrating his fourteenth birthday, face rounded in a soft smile and dimly lit by the orange glow of candlelight.

Two days later Dominic Kim Laurens had four more photos taken as he lay approximately four feet from the murder site on the wharf's concrete floor, one of the front, one from the back, and two from either side. None of these were to ever be present in his room.

-----

Once Mrs. Laurens finishes her abbreviated rendition of Dominic’s life pre-mortem, of which I find myself having to fill in for her more weeping-filled gaps, she turns to the box of tissues placed out between her husband and herself, the former of whom had wordlessly stood up and left the room, one hand covering his mouth and eyes snapped shut just minutes into her telling.

“Mrs. Laurens,” I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees as I wait for her to finish wiping the tears from her eyes, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the night of the murder, and take a look around Dominic’s room, if that’s alright.”

“Yes,” Her voice cracks, throat bobbing with the effort to speak anymore. I nod to Mikel, who had remained still and silent for the duration of her talk.

“What was Dominic doing the day of the attack?” As Mikel’s gentle voice begins the interrogation, I stand and move inside the victim’s room, keeping one ear out for her response as I shift the door covered with different stickers depicting basketballs, hoops, and players alike.

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Laurens breathes in sharply, gathering herself, “Dominic always went to his friend’s house after he finished practice…” She pauses for a moment, the door reveals a room much like she described- littered with photos and all of himself, “I… He didn’t say if anything was different that day…”

“What was his friend’s name?” Mikel’s voice is small, barely a soft whisper floating around the corner. Is she crying again? No, her voice didn’t break, but she must be losing her composure. Mrs. Laurens isn’t responding. “Take your time, Ma’am.”

I find the photos Mrs. Laurens described, all in their specified places, and examine them for myself. The beach photo is blurry, taken with an unsteady hand, with grains of sand stuck to the lense as if the camera’d been dropped or abandoned in the sand until time to pose for the picture.

“Daniel,” Mrs. Laurens’ tenor quivers, “Daniel Rivera, legally, but he goes by McDonall.”

The basketball shot is even more blurred by motion, tilted at an awkward angle with any focus in his eyes diminished by the bright light obscuring his face, glaring angrily at the camera from the stadium’s ceiling. “And how did he know Daniel McDonall?”

The most accurate to its description is the depiction of “Domi” and “Junebug”. Both kids smile in the uncomfortable, controlled manner that comes when appeasing a pestering parent with a camera. They’re seated at a dining room table, bodies awkwardly turned to face the lens, hands stiffly interlocked.

“Elementary,” Mrs. Laurens speaks with a surprisingly controlled voice, schooling herself into a state of numbness for the sake of answering Mikel’s inquiries. “Daniel, Jay, Luca… Dominic went to middle school with all of them… But he met Daniel in elementary school. They were such good boys… they were all…” Her voice begins to waver again. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, Ma’am.” Mikel quietly reassures her.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re helping us greatly, Ma’am. You don’t have to be sorry.”

Silence.

“Thank you, Officer…”

“Mikel Bosque- but Mikel is fine, Mrs. Laurens.”

“Officer Bosque… Mikel, thank you… Are there any other questions? I’ll… do whatever I can.”

I proceed to the desk in the corner, a small schedule stapled above a thick golden physics book with papers shoved between the pages. My eyes trace the dates down to the day of the murder. ‘Dock 7, 5:00’ is written in embolden black letters. The location of the bodies.

“The photos… can be a little overwhelming.” I turn sharply, Mr. Laurens stands in the doorway, one hand idly tracing up and down a chipped section of the wood, “He did this on accident, we used to keep a vase on a table set outside his door- to look nice… Told Dom not to practice indoors but, well, he never listened to this old man anyway.” His chuckle is dry and cracking and followed by a weak sniff, his nose and eyes are lined with red.

“Did your son tell you why he was heading to Dock 7 at five on December 5th?”

Mr. Laurens shakes his head, stepping into the room, he looks around, and though he seems still and peaceable, I catch the shaking of his hands as he nervously rubs them together, the unsettled eyes as they flicker to one photo- before immediately looking away, only to catch on another that appears to hold some particular memory to him.

“Did your son mention Dock 7 at any particular time? Was it a common meeting place for him and his friends?”

“I don’t…” He chokes on his words, “I don’t know. No. No. It couldn’t have been. He hated the wharf. Couldn’t swim- Scared of the water… I wanted to teach him. This summer. That was the plan. He was too old to not know how to swim. If something had ever happened, I wanted him to be prepared. He was scared. His friends- I… I don’t… I don’t know…” The man in front of me cracks and crumbles, stumbling against the wall, he slides down, slowly, until he sits on the floor, laminated papers crumpling beneath him. Mr. Laurens hangs his head between his knees, and begins to weep. I clear my throat, glancing towards the doorway to check if Mikel is done with his part yet, but I can’t see him and Mrs. Laurens from around the corner.

“If you have any information about Dock 7, you can call our office.”

------

Daniel Rivera Jr. started introducing himself as Daniel McDonall after his brother Luca showed up at their house, sleeping in the arms of a social security worker with a note written to the senior Daniel Rivera, his father, notifying him of the death of an Abigail Spellmeyer. He was ten years old, Luca Spellmeyer was seven.

“And?” I speak into the pause on the other end of the phone line, originally having thought that perhaps Ms. McDonall needed to gather herself to get into the grittier details of Daniel and Luca’s childhoods, but when that pause has since lapsed into a sizeable silence.

“And?” Ms. McDonall’s echo comes out as a static hiss, “You wanted to know why Daniel went by McDonall instead of Rivera, this is why!”

“Ms. McDonall, Daniel was sixteen-”

“Is sixteen- just because you haven’t found him, Morgan Sharp-” She spits out the words with a serpentine venom, “- Does not mean my son is dead!”

“- Yet you stated that Luca… arrived… when Daniel was ten. What happened for those six years between?”

“Ask my husband.” Ms. McDonall drawls sarcastically.

“Ms. McDonall, it would be easiest if you-” The connection dies abruptly. I let the phone scream loud dial-tones in my ear for a moment before eventually, slowly, setting it down on the receiver. Almost immediately a sharp knock resounds at the door. “Come in.”

Eleanor slowly, purposefully pushes the door open, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I couldn’t help but listen in.”

“Your desk is right outside my office, Eleanor, I don’t think you would’ve been able to avoid hearing that if you tried.”

She considers my words with a pursed expression, before nodding in agreement. “Well, anyway, I did some digging as to why it was Mrs- er- Ms. McDonall was still showing up as Mrs. Rivera in our system.”

Folding my hands on my desk, I watch as Eleanor steps aside, allowing Mikel, who had apparently been waiting behind her, strides confidently into the room, waving a small collection of papers in his hand. “Would’ja believe it, Cap’n, that it wasn’t just the system screwing up again? But just some more family dirt dug up in this beautiful little case of ours.” He slaps the papers atop my desk, lips peeling back from his teeth triumphantly.

I look to Eleanor for a more direct answer, she steps around Mikel, spreading the papers out in a neat row, “Daniel Rivera Sr. and Cristina McDonall never filed for a divorce.” She taps the fifth and last paper neatly, “Until Ms. McDonall tried to- about one month ago.”

I turn the paper to face me, “November 28...”

“Just a bit curious how that’s only a week before the murder… and the kidnapping- of his own two sons, if I might add.” Mikel fills the room with that cloudy thought hanging over everyone’s head.

“But it’s not enough to prove he’s guilty.” Eleanor cautions him.

Mikel holds out his hands, “I’m not saying that the guy is!” He pulls up one of the two chairs by the desk, flipping it around so that he can sit on it and slin his arms over the back, “What I am saying, though, is that either we need to give Mr. Rivera a li’l visit, or he’s gonna have to visit us.”

“Mikel!” Eleanor snaps, her jaw hangs open, eyes glimmering with slight exasberation, “We’re not on some crime television show…! We can’t just- just barge into his house unannounced. We need a search warrant, or an arrest warrant if we really think he… might play some part in what happened.”

“We don’t have the time.” Both of them turn to face me when I speak up. “If there’s even the slightest possibility that Daniel Rivera Sr. killed those two boys and kidnapped Luca and Daniel Jr. then we can’t waste any time in making sure that they’re safe.” I pick up the phone again, standing as I do so when a sudden wave of antsy energy rushes through me. Eleanor opens her mouth to protest. “There won’t be any more kid’s corpses on these docks.”

She holds my gaze, staring me down, but her jaw slowly shuts. “You still can’t do anything in the system without a warrant.”

“Oh, Ellie, Ellie” Mikel laughs, “There’s always a way around the system.”

“Do you have a suggestion?”

Mikel rocks back in his chair ever so slightly, “Of course I do!” He turns to face me, and despite that impish smile there’s a stern, serious glint to his eyes, “Call him to make a testimony at his house. We three go and then you do what you did with the Laurens and say that the two of you,” He points to Eleanor and then myself, “Are going to take a look at Daniel and Luca’s rooms, respectively. The fact that you just so happened to end up looking elsewhere in the house becomes little more than a small feat of getting lost.”

“So lost that we end up thoroughly searching every room in the house for incriminating evidence of arson, murder, and kidnapping?” Eleanor shakes her head.

“You underestimate just how lost one can get. Come to the city with me sometime, you’ll see.”

“Mikel, how long do you think you’d be able to distract him?” Mikel faces me once more, sobering up a considerable amount as he mulls over the question.

“Depends,” Mikel shrugs, “I haven’t met the guy yet and I’d need to get a good read on him to figure out whether or not he’s the chatty type. Not to mention I’d have to do this all under the guise of an actual interview, and there’s only so many questions I can ask before any sane person gets suspicious. But if he really is guilty of all this then we might not have to worry about that last part.”

“So you want us to search the house of a man who is either completely innocent, or managed to sneak a bomb of some kind into a populated wharf and then blow up two boys? Without a solid sense of how long we’ll have to do so?” Eleanor speaks slowly.

“Well, most of those details are irrelevant to the search itself, Ellie. Just think of it as find and go seek, count to one-hundred if you don’t trust me, then shout olly-olly-oxenfree and come back if you really want. Otherwise, I’ll let you know when he’s getting antsy.”

“How?”

“However seems natural at the time.”

“We have to try it.” I stare at the papers on the desk, the manilla folder still out from the last time I poured through its sparse contents. “We have to.”

“If it doesn’t work,” Mikel starts to stand, pushing the chair back into place, “We’re at least supposed to interview him, anyway.”

-----

Daniel Rivera Sr. lives nearby the wharf… a fact that certainly made Eleanor’s calm facade break momentarily into an expression of surprise. The house is small with vanilla paint over red brick and a tiled roof, it’s squished, townhouse-style, between two near identical buildings, with the most distinctive aspect of Mr. Rivera’s abode being the bundles of fake flowers pushed into a real flower pot that hangs outside his window, bright pink and red against the otherwise barren urban winter. I step up to the door, with Mikel right behind me and Eleanor lagging back a bit as she surveys the surrounding area. The doorbell chimes with a long, melodic tune that echoes around, muffled by the door. The man who opens the door has a square jaw and tired brown eyes, a sad smile lighting his face when he sees Mikel and Eleanor’s uniforms behind me. He’d expected us… considering we called him to set up the appointment.

“Come on in, no reason to freeze outside.” He stands astride the door, waving the three of us into his house hurriedly. “Would you like to hang your coats? There’s a fire already warming the living room- sit, rest, you three must be freezing.”

“No, thank you.” Eleanor politely refuses, “We won’t take much of your time, sir.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Rivera has deep lines by his nose and mouth, the kind that make for a bright grin like Mikel’s, but now seem only to be used for a melancholy ghost of such. “You’re here so I can help you find my sons, correct? If that is so… then take as long as you need and I’ll… I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Officer Bosque will be handling that,” I shrug towards Mikel, who extends his hand in greeting, “Officer Pike and I were hoping it’d be alright to take a look at the boys rooms while Officer Bosque interviews you?”

Mr. Rivera nods slowly, “Of course, but first, sit and have some tea. I insist,” He adds when he catches Eleanor’s hesitant glance towards me, “It’s too cold to do anything else, and I have all day free for you to snoop into my private laugh.” The joke is coupled with a weak laugh, Mikel does his best to match it with a soft chuckle of his own, but Eleanor’s face remains cold as steel, I remain silent.

“Alright,” I acquiesce, Eleanor’s eyes slide over and catch my own, but I keep staring towards Mr. Rivera, “Tea it is, then.”

“Fantastic! You can wait in the living room,” Mr. Rivera points through a doorway, towards a crackling fire, “I’ll be right back.”

Once we go through our doorway, and Mr. Rivera disappears around the corner, Eleanor tugs me closer to herself and Mikel, “Sharp, what are you doing?”

“You wanted a time limit,” I whisper, “This is Mikel’s chance to get us one, get a read on him.”

“He seems nice.” Mikel pipes in. “I kinda… feel a little guilty, honestly. It seems like he really misses his sons.”

“You were the one to suggested this!” Eleanor reminds him.

“I know,” Mikel shrugs, his eyes located somewhere distant, “I just… I still think it’s a good idea to look around- don’t get me wrong, but I… well, I won’t be surprised if we don’t find anything, is all I’m saying.”

Eventually he seems to slide back into the present, catching Eleanor’s gaze, “Oh come on, Ellie, you can’t seriously say he doesn’t seem depressed by what’s happened, can you?”

“I’m reserving my judgement. Like I should.”

“Everyone is innocent until proven guilty,” I remind the both of them, “Now stop fighting, and focus.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Rivera comes through the open doorway once more, juggling four cups in his bare hands. Eleanor stands to help him but Mr. Rivera shakes his head, “No, no,” He turns away from her help, “They’re hot, you’ll burn your hands.”

“But what about yo…” Eleanor trails off as her line of sight falls down to Mr. Rivera’s hands, which glow a soft ember orange color as he sets the cups down on the table.

“You have powers.” I comment, half to myself, as Mr. Rivera stands straight once more. He laughs, bashfully, a sudden wave of sheepishness overtaking his features as he rubs his hands together self-consciously.

“Nothing quite so fantastic, I’m afraid.” He squeezes them together, the glow slowly fading, “I can heat my hands up to boil water or cook, which saves quite a bit of money, and I don’t have to worry about being burned in the kitchen, which saves quite a bit of pain…” Another quiet bout of laughter, “But I’m no hero. Far too old to go running around saving the world and all that.” He shakes his head, “Though I appreciate those who are able to do more than I.”

Mr. Rivera takes a seat, clutching his mug between his hands. Mikel sits straighter, and takes a breath to begin the conversation-

“Mr. Rivera, why did you and Ms. McDonall wait until a month ago to file for a divorce?” It’s almost eerie, the way every single head snaps to look at me with a similar perplexed expression once I speak up. Mikel nudges me in the side with his elbow, and once Eleanor registers what it is I’ve said, her expression shifts from emotion to emotion before finally settling on a combination of confusion and annoyance. Mr. Rivera, on the other hand, is frozen in place, or so it seems. The only mobile thing about him comes from the steam curling out of the ceramic mug in his hands.

“What my boss means to say is-” Mikel starts in spluttering tones, but he’s cut off when Mr. Rivera lifts a hand, still staring in my direction.

“It’s… fine, I suppose.” Finally shaking himself from his stupor, Mr. Rivera glances into the tea mug before setting it back down on the table, he runs his hands over his knees, smoothing out his pants. “Though… I thought you wanted to go upstairs and search the boys’ rooms?”

“So did I…” I hear Eleanor mutter from the other side of the couch.

“I have a few questions.” I shrug, glancing Mikel and Eleanor, “I think it’d be best if we ask them now.”

“If… that’s what you want.” Mr. Rivera hesitantly agrees.

“Well, that’s fine with me,” Mikel shrugs and flops back against the couch, slinging one arm over the back, “Whatever you think is best, Cap’n.”

Eleanor searches my face for a moment longer, her gaze lingers silently as she nods and stiffly leans her arm against the armrest.

“So, why now?” I return to Mr. Rivera.

“Well…” Mr. Rivera scratches the back of his head, running a hand through curled dark brown hair, “I guess I should… clarify. Cristina and I- the plan was never to divorce. We wanted-” He stops, swallows heavily, “Well, I wanted, to give the boys a normal childhood. As normal as it could be, considering… The circumstances with which Luca came into our lives. Cristina wanted, reasonably, to leave. I promised that it would just last until they were off into the world on their own. Then we would go our separate ways and she would never, ever have to see me again.”

“Which didn’t go over very well, did it?” I fill in.

“No.” Mr. Rivera shakes his head, then stops, “Well, no… later. At first she seemed to agree- it was the one thing we’d agreed on since Luca arrived. We both wanted the boys to be happy, and we thought two parents would be better than one but…” Mr. Rivera sighs, “It was worse. Much worse. We fought constantly, and she hated me, had reason to- but- I just…” His hands wrap around his knees, “I can’t shake the feeling that this is all my fault. That if we’d split there then none of this would’ve happened, everything would’ve been cleaner and… Luca and Daniel would still-”

“Why?” I cut him off before his train of thought can continue.

“Cristina came to me with the divorce papers to sign, we fought- of course,” A dry, sarcastic, loathing laugh escapes his lips, “Luca overheard, he was eavesdropping- curious boy.” Another chuckle, this one somehow simultaneously happier and more pained, “I think he told Daniel. I think that they… wanted to escape, just for a while. Go somewhere with friends far from home, far from everyone. As far as they could get from Daniel’s mother’s house. So they went to the docks that day- nevermind how dangerous that area is and now… They both acted so distant afterwards I couldn’t help but believe that was why.”

“They got along?” Eleanor’s tone betrays surprise, she sits straighter, perked up at this small detail. Almost immediately she snaps her mouth closed, realizing her words and looking away embarrassedly. “I’m sorry, sir. I assumed, with the circumstances that they might not’ve-”

“It’s fine.” Mr. Rivera shakes his head, “I suppose it does seem strange, especially since, as you probably know, Daniel stopped using my family’s name after Luca came home. But… Daniel is a good boy, I think he resented Luca at first- would barely talk to him, but I believe that Luca grew on him. So, yes, the two got along. They were brothers, full brothers, no matter what the past is.” There’s a glimmer of pride poking through the cloud surrounding Daniel Rivera Sr.’s eyes.

“They left because they found out of the divorce? And that’s why they ended up on Dock 7, to get away, correct?” I repeat.

“Yes. I’m sure.” Mr. Rivera answers.

“And both of them- both of your sons- were upset at this time?”

“Well, yes.” Mr. Rivera’s head tilts in confusion, “Of course they were, we’d been struggling for so long to keep our family together and it just-”

“Everything in their lives fell apart.”

Mr. Rivera nods. I stand up, “I see. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rivera.”

“What?” Mikel is the first one to bolt up, shocked, “Woah, Morgan! What are you doing?”

“You’re leaving?” Mr. Rivera goes wide-eyed. “So soon?”

“Yes. We need to leave.” Mikel is by my side, one hand grasping the back of my arm, Eleanor stands as well, shaking her head at me in disbelief.

“Hang on- Morgan!” Mikel tugs me back, “We’ve barely asked any questions! Let alone, y’know, looked at their rooms?”

“We need to go,” I pull my arm free, “Now.” Mikel and Eleanor share a quick glance, but by the time they start to follow me I already have the front door open, half jogging towards the car we came in.

“Thank you again for your time, Sir!” I hear Mikel shout behind me as he runs towards the car, Eleanor several paces in front of him. “You’ve... uh, really helped us out!” He slams the door behind himself as I start up the engine, Eleanor already buckled in beside me. “I guess?”

“Mind telling us where we’re going?” Eleanor is the first to speak, her hand clenched in a white-knuckled grip on the car door as we speed along the narrow streets near the wharf, sirens blaring.

“Yes, call it in.” I instruct, “Contact the western HQ, tell them to search the Rusty Side for Luca Rivera and Daniel McDonall, then have our office fax them the images on file. Tell them not to open fire, but to use extreme caution.” Eleanor, suspiciously but surely enough, reaches for the radio lodged into the car console.

“The Rusty Side?” Mikel leans forward from the back seat, “That’s on the other side of town!”

“As far away as possible. They won’t leave the city. They can’t.”

Mikel’s eyes stretch until his irises are surrounded by white, “You mean you think you know where they are?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I have an idea.”

Mikel sits back in the seat with a huff, “Lotta pomp for just an ‘idea’.”

“Do you have a better one?” Eleanor turns her head sharply behind her, pausing as the message is relayed to the western N.P.D.’s western headquarters.

Mikel stretches his arms out to the side, “I honestly can say that I have no idea what’s happening. So, no, no I do not.”

-----

Once we’re actually in the Rusty Side of Nickelport I begin to feel a lot of the tension and original adrenaline of my discovery drain away. I loosen my grip on the steering wheel as I pull the car into a side alley, the three of us step out and I pass to the keys to Eleanor. “Drive around, but keep the lights and siren off. If you see anything then contact us immediately.” She nods somberly, before slipping into the driver seat and slowly rolling down the road. Mikel and I watch until the tail lights disappear around the corner.

“We need to find them before dark.” Mikel comments, glancing up at the ever fading sky. I pull back my sleeve and check my watch. Five in the afternoon. “Your favorite time of the day.” Mikel comments with a smile as he takes a peak over my shoulder. “Must be good luck.”

“They’ll be somewhere quiet.” I shove my hands into my pockets, the winter chill crawling through the thin fabric of my coat, “Look in alleyways, abandoned buildings, anywhere uninhabited.”

Mikel’s beam fades away, “Are you sure about this?”

“I have to be.”

“No,” He shakes his head, “I don’t mean where they are, I trust you on that.” That confidence makes a brief return at the comment, “I mean… splitting up- will you be okay? And if you find them…? Maybe you should’ve taken the car…” His eyes start to waver towards the ground.

“Mikel,” I draw them back, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine… I have to be.” One more glance at the sky shows me that it’s grown even darker, “Now, get moving. Remember what I told you- it’s just a hunch but… exercise caution.”

He beams at me once more, “Aww, you worried about me now? Come on, Morgan, when am I ever not careful?” He throws his arms out to the side, already backpedaling slowly down the alleyway.

I don’t respond.

Mikel laughs boisterously, “See you on the other side, Cap’n!” He gives a mock salute before turning around and walking off, bouncing on his heels.

-----

Quiet surrounds me. Lights dimly gleam from barred windows, casting broken shadows on the cracked, uneven street. A bag floats by and catches on a lamppost with a shattered bulb, glass scattered dangerously around the sidewalk. I take peak down each alley I find, only to be met with that same sullen silence. I hear jaunty whistling coming from one open door as a woman with her hair tied in two knotted pigtails pushes a ratty couch onto the street, casting me one suspicious outsiders-glare before kicking the couch the rest of the way outside and slamming the door closed. No more whistling. No more anything.

My feet begin to ache by the time that the sun has crested over the squat buildings and the sky’s been bruised purple and blue, just barely enough light that I don’t yet feel the need to flick on my flashlight and expose my presence to this unwavering ghost town. Static crackles on my radio each time I consider contacting Mikel or Eleanor to check in with their progress, but the risk of revealing myself remains too high to try. I spot one abandoned concrete building, like a half-built factory… no, not half built. I realize by the faded sign and rusted up, unused shipping trucks parked in the nearly empty driveway. It’s been destroyed.

The building is wide, taking up three houses space, with a broken down old metal gate in front, the latch missing and one side hanging open at an angle that I squeeze through. The peeling sign talks about some kinda fabric- maybe shirts or pants- the words are too far gone to tell. The left half of the building is fully intact, plain grey concrete with symmetrical rows of blackened windows and two tall steel pipes rising up out of the ground… but the right half has caved in on itself. Exposed rebar pokes out of slabs of concrete that have fallen down and now lean haphazardly against what remains of the left half of the building, deep gashes gore the parking lot, with one truck still wedged vertically between the layers of destruction, its torso crushed beyond recognition, a stain on the asphalt below indicates where oil had leaked and then dried up over time.

This was the site of a hero’s battle.

Who’s, and when this was I have no idea, no matter how long I search my limited knowledge of famous battles no recollection comes up. Considering the fact that it's been left untouched for rebuilding could mean three things. It’s a twisted memorial for whoever important it was that died here- most likely the hero in that case, nobody cared enough because it was in the depths of the Rusty Side of Nickelport, or the ground is still too unstable to touch. My hopes remain in the former two. The fact that it’s a factory does, however, give some insight into when this was, considering most factories were dismantled or moved decades ago when the Rusty Side of Nickelport became more and more populated. If it weren’t for that fact, then the thick swathings of rust and dust would be more than enough clue, only barely broken up by graffiti markings from the more adventurous Rusty Side youth.

Other than that, however, this is a place for ghosts.

And, if I’m right, two very scared teenage boys.

I traverse across the beaten, broken path to the left side of the factory, slipping carefully underneath one precariously balanced horizontal slab of concrete as dust rains down upon my head. Inside the shadows are so dark that I find it finally time to flick on my flashlight to get a good look at what’s around me. The light flicks on and almost immediately I am greeted with a rough, suspicious voice,

“Who’s there?” A young voice.

“My name is Morgan Sharp…” I speak calmly into the darkness, I can’t call for Mikel or Eleanor, not now, not when I’ll be heard if I do. “Are you Luca Rivera?”

Silence.

“Daniel, then? Daniel McDonall?”

“What do you want with me?”

“Your brother isn’t with you?” There’s no response, “Can you come outside first?” I ask, eyeing the broken up ceiling with my flashlight, “This place is dangerous.”

“Not until you tell me who you are and what you want.”

I stifle a sigh, “My name is Morgan Sharp,” I repeat, “I’m a detective and captain of the Nickelport Police Department, I work in the East Bay-”

“So you’re…” Daniel interrupts me, but promptly stops.

“I’m here to talk about Dominic Kim Laurens and Jay Pestia,” I whisper the words, unsure of the reaction, “Yes, that’s right.”

“They were my friends.” Daniel’s voice is equally quiet. “They were…” He chokes on the words.

“Can you come outside?”

I’m not answered verbally, instead, I hear footsteps crunching slowly on debris. Exhaling calmly, I turn around and slip out the way I came in.

Daniel McDonall stands with his arms wrapped around himself, shaking, head hanging, with blood dried on his shirt. The resemblance to his father is uncanny, the same curled brown hair and light brown skin, the same sharp jawline and broad shoulders, you see that he has his mother’s button nose which only adds to the confirmation that, yes, this is Daniel McDonall. And he’s still alive.

“I’m going to call someone, they’ll get you back to the station. When was the last time you ate?” Daniel just shakes his head, “They’ll have food there, just ask. Wait one moment.”

I step away from him, pulling up the radio, first, I wire in my location to the Rusty Side’s HQ so they can send someone. Then, I call Eleanor.

“Eleanor,”

“Sharp! I was getting worried. I haven’t heard from you or Mikel, are you alright?” Her voice pops against the radio static

“Yes, I’m fine. I found Daniel.”

“You did?” She sounds hopeful, “Great, I’ll swing by and pick him up-”

“No, don’t. I already called someone else.”

“What? Why not?”

“Luca isn’t with him.” Eleanor doesn’t respond, waiting, “I’m going to ask why, but call Mikel and let him know what’s happening… Actually- no, scratch that. Find where he is, meet up, then call me and I’ll give you my location. I think we’ll need to reconvene soon.”

“On it.” Static fills the radio, I pocket it once more and walk back to Daniel, who hasn’t budged since I left him.

He glances up at me as I approach, brown eyes voided into blank reflective pits. No fear. No sadness. No emotion. “Can you tell me where your brother is? Where Luca is?”

Daniel stares at the ground once more. “I don’t know.”

I step closer, unsure, “Daniel- I need to know- I need to find him. Your brother-”

“Half-brother.” Daniel spits on the ground.

I pause, grind my jaw, “Luca is in danger, Daniel.”

No response.

“If you have any information at all-”

“I don’t know!” His voice comes out in a high pitched, shrill scream, he turns wildly towards me, eyes bulging like a frightened animal, arms flung out to the sides, “I panicked and I ran! I left them there! Dead! They’re all dead!” His hands dig through his hair, into his skull, his legs start to shake, “They’re all dead! They’re all-!”

I grip his shoulders before he can topple over, Daniel sobs, “They’re all dead- so why aren’t I?” Carefully, Daniel sits down on the ground, I keep hold of his shoulders until he’s no longer in danger of falling over, then, I release him and step back. Daniel hangs his head once more, shoulder heaving in sobs, broken by the occasional hiccup.

“Luca isn’t dead.” I speak in a carefully controlled manner, “He’s still alive, but he’s in danger, Daniel. If you can remember anything, anything at all about where he would go, or even just what direction he ran in… You could help, Daniel. You could save him.”

With this, Daniel finally lifts his head to stare at me, his cheeks are wet with tears and he’s still trembling terribly, but he nods, and through quivering lips, he manages to speak. “Dock 9.”

“Dock 9?”

“We…” He swallows his spit, “We were going to walk there together, the way it’s set up we would…” A shaky smile comes across his face as Daniel sniffs and rubs the bottoms of his eyes harshly, “We used to sneak out there, all four of us, when we were young and play on the beams- like they were monkey bars ‘n shit, the plan was to meet at the construction site and walk there together… we didn’t… we didn’t make it there, did we?” He twists his shirt between his hands.

I opt out of answering, I can already hear the sirens approaching in the distance, “You may have just saved your brother, Daniel. Thank you.”

He nods, and unsteadily stands up, wordlessly walking towards the flickering red and blue lights.

-----

“Where are we going?” Eleanor wastes no time pulling the car out into the street soon as my door is closed. Mikel twists around to face me from the front seat as I pull the belt over my chest.

“Dock 9.”

“Dock 9?” Mikel repeats, “All the way back on the East Bay? What about running as far as they can?”

“Change of plans.”

I stare out the window as the scenery whizzes by, Eleanor already has the lights and siren on, making the outside world look like little more than a red and blue screaming blur. I jump a little when I feel Mikel reach over and pat my leg to draw my attention.

“Hey,” His lips pull back in that pearl white grin, “You handled that well, Morgan. Better than well, actually.”

“Mh,” I make an unassuming noise and turn back to the window, mouth covered by my hand.

“Yeah, well, get ready to do it again.” In my peripheral I see Eleanor’s eyes flicker to me through the rearview mirror. “Because we’re about to save another kid.”

“Mh,”

----

Even with Eleanor’s neck-breaking speed we manage to pull up as the last to a series of N.E.B.P.D. police cars, all with the lights blaring and doors open.

“Captain Sharp, sir,” Officer Moran Dubois comes sprinting up to me, gun drawn and clutched in their hand, “Luca Rivera’s presence inside has been confirmed, sir.”

“What is everyone doing with their guns drawn…?” Mikel observes as he takes a quick glance around the premise. Officer Dubois nervously tucks their gun back into the holster.

“Sir, we-”

“I specifically ordered no firearms,” I frown, “No matter what.”

“But, sir-”

“No firearms.” I repeat, “Unless you want everything to go to hell. Now, Mikel, Eleanor, Officer Dubois, get everyone centered once more. This is a kid we’re dealing with, not a villain.” Moran is the first to sprint off, Eleanor and Mikel hang back a moment. I glance between the two of them, “What?”

“You’re planning on going in there.” Eleanor’s voice is steady, her face remains expressionless.

“Yes.”

“Alone.”

“I can’t scare him.” Eleanor purses her lips, a disapproving silence hangs around her.

“Listen, Morgan,” Mikel steps forward, “Let me do this. Personal interaction is, quite literally, my only use on this team.” He tries a joking smile, but for once it comes across as nervous, “Let me prove that I’m not yet out of date, alright? I’ll go in there and-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Neither of you should go in there alone.” Eleanor interjects.

“I am. And you two are to stay out here and keep watch.” I unhook my gun holster, gun still inside, and pass it off to Eleanor, “And watch this.” She stares at it, registering what I’m saying, before her face contorts into bright red fury.

“Now you’re just insane…” Mikel whispers.

“Are you kidding me, Morgan?” She flings it on the ground, “No! No way! I will not entertain the kind of stupidity that’ll get you killed!” She jabs her finger to my chest, “You are not going in there alone, and you’re sure as hell not going in there unarmed!”

I push her finger away, sternly staring her down. “I’m going. And you’re staying, and keeping my gun. This is a kid, and I can’t scare him.” Neither of them seem willing to back down, “This is an order.”

Eleanor’s face has gone blood red, flushed deep with a rare streak of anger, but she is the first to leave, leaving the gun on the ground where it lay. Mikel looks sick at the thought, staring at the firearm before staring at me. Eventually, slowly, he bends down and picks it up, turning the pistol over in his hands before hooking the holster to his belt. Shakily, he raises a hand in mock salute, his voice quivers when he speaks.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Mikel slowly sulks away.

I take a deep breath, and turn to Dock 9.

------

The inside is filled with the sound of a creaking metal chorus. Moonlight leaks in through an open window, bouncing off of the bronze beams and exposed piping that criss cross around the entirety of the warehouse. It’s easy to see how a bunch of kids would find this place better than any normal park, with beams to balance on and places to climb galore. The entire thing is just one big steel jungle to explore for them. My footsteps echo around this jungle, announcing my presence long before I would ever want to.

I listen for a similar such sound, hoping that perhaps Luca is moving around, and I’d be able to hear as much. But when I stop walking, so does any sound, and any inkling that this will be easy is simultaneously sapped from from my body. With a weary breath, I move on, cautiously calling his name out into the warehouse.

“Luca?”

A steel door provides entryway into another section of Dock 9’s warehouse, I push it open, the prolonged, unoiled creak stretches and distorts down the hall.

“Luca?”

My voice bounces back at me from between the rebar, off of the walls and up from the floor.

“Luca?”

I’m not entirely sure what I’m expecting to find. Whether he’ll been standing or sitting, crouched in a corner or balancing on one of the beams high above my head. Daniel had the advantage of being tucked away by a layer of shadows, and so was spared from the light, as he was from many things, apparently. Some silly, fantastical part of me expects to first see a flicker of light or flame, some kind of indication of light reflecting off of the many shiny surfaces in this place. What I find instead is another large steel door, twin to the one before it, and as I push it open my nose is blasted with the salty smell of the bay, my ears assaulted by the crash of the water rumbling against the support pillars that dig into the sand beneath the water, and the creak of the wood as I step outside, and beyond that, past the closed door, sitting underneath an outcropping that was at one point perhaps meant to store equipment is a small boy with floppy brown curls stuck to his forehead with surprised, wet round eyes as dark as his brother’s, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big with the hem pulled over his knees and the hood thrown over his head.

“Luca?” I ask, and he nods, his cheeks are wet and his eyes and nose puffy and red. He looks much less like his father than Daniel did, with rounded shoulders and face- features which all must come from Abigail Spellmeyer. But the eyes and hair are distinctly Mr. Rivera’s. I crouch down next to him. “My name is Morgan Sharp, I’m a police officer, Luca.” The boy’s face pales considerably.

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“No.” I fold my arms, letting them rest on my knees, “I’m not here to arrest you.”

“But you know what I did. That’s why you’re here, that’s why you’re all here.” He sniffles, but he doesn’t back away, his hands pull on the sleeves, already too long for him, balling up the fabric between his fingers.

“We’re here to make sure you don’t get hurt.” I speak slowly, quietly, trying hard to imagine what it is Mikel would say if he were here instead of me. But trying to understand his mind is a lot like trying to walk through a maze blindfolded and dead drunk. Luca stares at me for a long while, his eyes wide and searching, judging the truth in my words. His hands slowly relax, he pulls the sleeves away from them, fresh burn marks run up and down his palms, blackened skin peeling away slowly, fading into irritated red boils.

“I did it.” He buries his face in those hands, I hear quiet weeping between his words, “Daniel, Dominic, Jay- I did it… I didn’t mean to! I don’t know what happened! I just- It’s all my fault, everything that happened- everything is my fault!” His composure starts to break, and I watch as flames seem to spark to life around him, even on this wet ground they lick the floors and heat the air around us. I flinch when one comes a bit too close to my side, but I keep myself rooted to the ground. “I watched! I saw it! I didn’t mean to but it just… happened! I couldn’t- I didn’t want- Jay, he tried…”

“Luca.”

“He tried to reach out- he was- I knew he was trying to help- but I panicked!” Luca sobs, the fire picks up around him, wild and uncontrolled, eating away at its own master, gnawing on the back of his hands.

“Luca.” I fight to keep my voice controlled.

“Daniel was right! Everything goes wrong because of me! It’s my fault Mom and Dad are leaving! It’s my fault that Jay and Dom are… are… Oh god.” He covers his mouth, eyes wide and wild with fear and morbid fascination, “I… I killed them. I did.”

If I don’t stop him… I bite my tongue and reach out, hissing when my hand passes through the fire growing around him, and grab onto Luca’s shoulder. “Luca! You need to stop.”

Something in my voice, or maybe the contact, snaps Luca back to reality… But soon as he notices the fire around him, he screams and slaps my hand away, scrambling to his feet he backs away, but it just follows him, biting at his heels and snapping at his hands. I cradle my injured hand, a stinging, burning pain blossoming in the palm as I stand up, slowly proceeding towards him.

“Stay away!” Luca’s voice is little more than a primal, panicked yell molded into modern words, “I don’t want to hurt anybody else! I can’t! I can’t!” He takes another step back, another step towards the dark and murky waters of the bay. The fire seems to ball up at his feet, ready to burst.

Ready to explode.

I never understood Mikel, anyway.

“You can.” I speak, straightening my shoulders. “You can hurt people, Luca, if you don���t calm down and control your powers.” His focus is drawn back to me, away from the flames, “Which is why you need to learn how to. The more you run, the worse this gets, and if it doesn’t kill you first, then it’ll kill somebody else. It’s already taken two lives, your right. But that wasn’t you, it was your power. I can help you prevent it from killing any more than it already has. I can help you prevent it from killing yourself.”

My gaze is steady, my hand pressed against my chest, the fire hisses and crackles by his feet, swallowing his shoes. “Do you want that?”

“I don’t…” Luca takes a half step back, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You haven’t. But it has.” I nod to the fire, now up to his ankles and swirling around, “But you can stop it. I can help you stop it.”

Luca nods numbly.

“Good.” I tilt my head slightly, “Now calm down.”

“I… I can’t.” Luca shakes his head, the fire hisses, “I can’t just-”

“You can. Just remember that you can be in control, you just have to focus. Breathe. Take a step forward.” He does. “Good, now another one.” Two steps forward and he’s far enough away from the edge that I begin to relax some, the fire begins to hiss as it dies out, “One more, then do it on your own.”

Luca breathes in time with his steps as he numbly places one foot in front of the other. By the time he stands in front of me, the fire is little more than hissing smoke in the air around us, what lingering heat there was is gone, along with Luca’s shoes, his feet scarred and burned, and as his senses begin to return, he cries out in pain, collapsing to his knees. Tears stream down his face and hit the wooden planks beneath him. “What… happened to me?” He sobs out quietly, “Why am I…?”

“You have powers.” I state, “Powers you need to learn to control so that this never happens again.” I reach into my pocket, pulling out one of the small white cards I always carry around, partially for this specific purpose. I grab a pen from my pocket and write a familiar name and address on the back of the card. “Talk to your parents- especially your father. There’s psychologists for these kinda things, tell them you need this help. And… here,” I hand the card to Luca, who gingerly takes it in his hands, wincing when it hits his palms he shifts to hold it delicately by his few unburned fingertips. “Someone who can help.”

Luca remains silent, pocketing the card numbly and nodding obediently.

“Can you walk?” The question feels obvious even as it leaves my mouth, still, Luca tries to stand, only to fall back to his knees. “Never mind.” I run a hand through my hair, pulling out my radio. “I’m going to call some more people-”

“People who can help?” Luca finally strangles out a couple of words, his voice is raw and he winces when he speaks.

“Yeah,” I nod, “People who can help.”

-----

I tuck the manilla folder away in the steel cabinet, shutting it with my one good hand. The other still rather useless in its bandaged state while it hangs in its sling against my chest. I leave the case files room to come face to face with Eleanor, a brand new manilla folder clutched between her fingertips. Her eyes instinctively flicker down to my hand, a sharp frown pulling at her mouth.

“Came in this morning,” She explains passing it cordially over to me.

“Thanks, Eleanor.” I take the folder from her, expecting her to just leave after that, but Eleanor lingers, a contemplative look on her face. I tilt my head, waiting.

“I know you’re deadset in your ways,” Eleanor starts reluctantly, crossing her arms over her chest, “But promise me that next time you’ll take someone- anyone with you as backup, even if they wait a few feet away while you do your thing, just for safety. Promise me this, and I’ll forgive you.”

I can’t help but feel the edges of a smile creep up on my face. “How about I just take my gun next time instead?”

“No.” Eleanor frowns, “Because you are taking your gun in next time, promise or no promise. Even if I have to throw it at your head in the line of fire I’m not letting you pull that again.”

“Fine. Then I promise.”

Eleanor’s stiff face relaxes into a smile, some of the tiredness by her hazel eyes diminishes as well. “Good,” She sighs, her hands dropping, “Then I forgive you.”

-----

Soon as Mikel sees me, his face lights up in a familiar excited grin. “Hey, Cap’n! You’ll never guess who I just heard from!” He stands from his desk, a knowing spark to his dark eyes.

Knowing he won’t tell me unless I play along, “Who?”

“Well, I’ll give ya a hint- you hated her, she’s chatty, and you got her her son back.”

“Ms. McDonall.” I blink in surprise. Mikel nods.

“Yeah! Believe it or not, she was actually thanking us for once. Danny boy started going to that psychologist you recommended for Luca-”

“You mean Dr. James?” Mikel nods once more.

“Apparently Mr. Rivera passed the word onto her as well, thinking it could help Daniel as well as Luca with all that happened.” In that moment, Mikel’s demeanor shifts to a much more serious tone. He shakes his head. “You know, Morgan… I just… I hope nothing happens to that kid after this. He seemed to take after his father- good kid. Didn’t mean to hurt anybody…”

“Almost none of them do, not at the beginning.” I retort, “When their powers are that unstable… It’s not safe, for them or anyone around. There’s no control- nothing to stop them from going out of control. The situation only exacerbated what was already going to happen.”

“Quite the nihilist, ain’t ya?” Mikel manages a weak smile, “Still, if he does get good control of his powers, then I’m sure that kid could help out a lot.”

“You think he could be a cop?”

“I was going to go with hero.”

I shake my head, “I’ve worked in this business for a long time, Mikel. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that-”

“I know, I know,” Mikel waves his hand dismissively, “I’ve heard it all before, Cap’.”

Mikel’s grin grows as he readjusts his posture into a mock version of what I assume he believes is mine, adjusting his voice in accordance, “The last thing Nickelport needs is more heroes.”

Mikel shakes his head good-naturedly, “Well, Morgan Sharp, maybe one day you’ll be able to put the lot of ‘em outta business.”