Chapter 1.2.38 — Lock 9

Lachlan sat on his bed and stared at the missed messages on his personal phone:

Carter 8:29 PM: Hey can we talk?

Carter 8:33 PM: It’s probably nothing

Carter 9:32 PM: Worried about Ash

Carter 10:03 PM: Just call when you can

Carter 10:29 PM: It’s probably nothing

Lock shook his head, trying not to worry that he’d managed to sleep through all Carter’s messages. He’d been a bad friend. Maybe he’d just been… busy. That was what Lock told himself, anyway.

Whatever was going on between his friend and their significant other had to wait till morning. Lock left his personal phone behind and took his burner phone with him.

He had a job to do.

~

Lock let the night air of Belport wash away his worries and bring him back to the moment. Back to the hunt.

He walked the side streets and back alleys of the South side of Belport, wearing a black mask and black hoodie. Hidden in plain sight.

There was the Code for heroes, and then there was the Code for the other side of Belport. The slums, as it was called by those that didn’t live there, the underside, by supers that worked there. For Lock, it was a home he couldn’t get away from.

If you were a super, then you were expected to wear your mask when you were working. If you belonged to a gang, then you wore your colors too. That way, people knew who you were.

And you stayed on your side of town.

Lock broke the rules every time he came to the underside.

Supers weren’t supposed to wear all black here. It meant you were trying to hide who you were.

Though Lock walked with his hood up and hands tucked in his hoodie, he walked with confidence that only a powerful super had. And people on the street moved out of his way—didn’t matter if they were civilians, delinquents, or fellow supers. All of them gave him a wide berth. The only thing Lock watched his step for was the occasional bag of trash that had split or been rifled through. Even if nearby supers were suspicious, no one said anything to him as he passed.

Supers that knew the rules of the underside and still had the balls to wear all black were dangerous. Hiding their identity wasn’t protection for them so much as it was protection for any bystanders that might lay eyes on them.

But Lock suspected it was something else that kept the people of the underside away from him. That primal, gut feeling of danger—something like the hair standing up on the back of their neck when a predator was close.

It was like they knew what he was. Even if they couldn’t see his muscles flexing beneath his hoodie. Even if they couldn’t smell the mutagens suffusing his every cell, or read his mind.

Lock felt like a shark swimming through a school of fish, paying no mind to all the people that got out of his way.

No one said shit to him.

The fish knew better.

~

Lock double-checked the address in the encrypted window on his phone. He was in the right place.

He tucked the burner phone in his pocket and began to climb the brick wall of the slum apartment, fingertips growing into a bastardized mix of sharpened nails and bone spurs. They hooked into the bricks and mortar as easily as a cat’s claws, and the only sound was the quiet scratch as he gripped a new handhold.

He kept his shoes on, not bothering to change his feet. Lock merely used his legs to steady himself as he climbed up the side of the building to the third floor, slowly and methodically.

His target lived in one of the small, one-room apartments. The windows all had bars around them—the kind that were like a cage door that opened from a latch on the inside. Lock peered through the first window and saw the bedroom beyond.

Saw the man named Peter Wendell, sleeping still in his bed. An old blanket was tucked, pulled up taut under his chin. Most of the room was bare.

Lock crawled across the bricks to the next window that looked into the kitchen. If he entered here, Lock would be between his target and the front door—

Not that Mr. Wendell could get past him, anyway.

Lock grabbed the cage of the window and, with just enough pressure, pulled the bars until the latch gave way with a snap. In another smooth motion, he did the same with the window itself, and the latch gave way with another snap.

Then Lock crawled through the window.

All the times that Lock had entered through an upper window, the only way he could describe how he felt was like a spider. Climbing, contorting, and pulling himself through a window—it was effortless and completely quiet.

It was dark in Mr. Wendell’s kitchen, but Lock could see well enough. Old takeout cardboard and plastic ware were on the counter. There weren’t any normal dishes. No decorations on the walls. No furniture, save for two folding chairs in the adjoining living room.

Wendell wasn’t staying here for long. He was on the run from Gnosis.

Was.

Lock stood there in the darkness of the kitchen, waiting.

In the other room, Wendell was getting out of bed. No doubt he’d heard the snaps of the latches. The former school teacher crept to the bedroom door, floorboards creaking with every step.

Lock waited.

The bedroom door groaned open, and Wendell peeked through the crack. A moment later, Wendell stepped out from behind the door.

In the darkness, Lock could see him perfectly, could see the day-old stubble on his face and the few graying hairs on his head. He shuffled forward, wearing ragged pajamas and an equally old shirt, and clutching a long screwdriver like a junkie clutching a fix.

Even from across the room, Wendell reeked of Mutagen-A, and… something else—another mutagen, maybe.

Something else that didn’t matter.

Lock saw the slowly dawning fear as Wendell’s eyes searched the gloom of the kitchen and found a silhouette staring back at him.

Lock waited. Waited to see what Wendell would do.

He shouldn’t have. Depending on the next second, he could make Lock’s job slightly harder and the cleanup more cumbersome.

But truthfully… He liked seeing the fear in their eyes. Liked watching as that slowly dawning fear turned to sadness and terror.

Sometimes they tried to bargain. Others tried to run. But it always ended in terror. Like garnish on a well-prepared meal.

The second dragged on and in the dark, Wendell’s eyes widened as his brain finally realized that he was looking at a person in his kitchen. Lock could hear the thumping of his heart growing fast and loud, even from across the apartment.

“Are you… Are you from Gnosis?”

Lock waited.

Wendell swallowed and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the screwdriver desperately.

“I can explain,” Wendell muttered. “Really. I… Oh god. I… I have a son and a daughter. Please.”

Lock waited. Savoring the fear.

“...I’ll scream.”

“No, you won’t,” Lock finally said. “Because if you do, they won’t hurt just you.”

The implication of his kids’ lives hanging in the balance snuffed any remaining hope in the man. Mr. Wendell fell to his knees, still clutching the screwdriver, and sobbed.

Lock strode forward, so quickly and suddenly, that Wendell almost didn’t have time to look up. He seized Wendell by the throat with both hands. Wendell’s eyes bulged as Lock squeezed.

He could’ve broken the man’s neck, but he didn’t.

It wasn’t because Wendell’s body was half-suffused with Mutagen-A. Wendell was a failed experiment, but he was still stronger than a normal human. No—

That wasn’t it at all.

Wendell struggled, pawing desperately at Lock’s hands. He was still holding the screwdriver. Spit dripped down Wendell’s mouth and onto Lock’s hands.

Then Wendell stabbed him in the stomach with the screwdriver.

Lock let him—

Kept his grip on the man’s neck as he stabbed Lock over and over again.

Felt the metal pierce his skin and plunge into whatever strange organs now filled his abdomen. Felt as the blood coagulated almost instantaneously, as membranes stretched and reformed a hundredth of a second later.

Watched as Wendell realized that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do. Savored the moment that realization was distilled into fear in the man’s eyes.

Then Lock squeezed in earnest—

Wendell’s neck snapped. His arms dropped and his body hung limp in Lock’s hands.

Lock could smell the blood—could taste the iron.

Wendell’s lifeless face stared up at him, eyes frozen in pure terror.

Lock stared.

~

A minute or two later, there was a knock at Mr. Wendell’s front door.

It startled Lachlan, even though he was expecting it. Even though the knock always came after a job.

He finally let go of Wendell’s neck and the body fell over on the floor.

Then he went over and opened the door to find a maskless, hunched old woman waiting for him. Her hair was completely gray, frizzy, and she was fond of wearing dresses with flowers on them.

Granny Gap.

Today her dress had bluebirds and what looked like yellow roses—Lock wasn’t sure. He didn’t know much about flowers.

She hummed an old song and pulled a stretcher in behind her. Neither her shoes or the stretcher made a sound.

“Evening, Lachlan,” she said. “Nice night to work.”

Lock nodded, half-listening. He was focused on his breathing and trying to relax.

A moment later, he realized Granny Gap was staring at him expectantly, hands on her hips.

“Don’t just stand there,” she exclaimed. “Put the bastard on the stretcher.”

Lock tried not to wince. He still wasn’t used to how carefree the old woman was about her job. Apparently, it was a trait that reality warpers had in common.

He walked over and picked up Mr. Wendell’s lifeless body and laid him on the stretcher, taking care to place his arms and legs respectfully in line. She’d chastised him for that before.

“Thank you,” she said as she pulled a handful of cleaning wipes from her pocket. The rubbing alcohol made Lock’s nose wrinkle. She added, “Clean up that blood, and don’t dally, young man.”

Lock looked down at his hands and saw specks of dried blood under the bone spurs of his fingers. Some of it was caked in the creases of his skin too.

“I’m good, thanks,” Lock replied. He didn’t wash his hands until he got home. It was practically a ritual for him now.

“Not that,” she said, then pointed to the floor where the body had been. “That.”

He hadn’t noticed the few drops of Wendell’s blood on the floor. Lock must’ve squeezed harder than he thought.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lock muttered as she wheeled the stretcher and the body out the door. He shut it behind her and locked it.

Granny Gap would wheel the stretcher right out the front door and down the street, humming as she went. And no one would see, hear, or smell a goddamn thing.

Lock used the wipes to clean up the specks of blood on the floor then pocketed them. He’d throw them out later, in a random trash can.

Lock left through the window and crawled back down to the alley, and started the long walk back home. He chewed the bone spurs off his fingers as he walked, then concentrated on regrowing the skin over his fingertips.

A few months ago, the process had been painful. Now he simply turned off those receptors.

Lock felt nothing—not pain or disgust. Not regret.

He turned off most of his emotional receptors too.

~ ~ ~