Street Mage

It was stupid to set up shop so close to Central City. Every street mage knew that. So either Sullivan was stupid or very ambitious. He liked to think that he was ambitious. But months of bad business had shown him that maybe he was, indeed, stupid. There weren't many problems here by the First Union's capitol city, and what problems existed were dealt with by the Mighty Men.

“Friggin' government mages,” Sullivan growled. He leaned against the lamppost, scowling, working the toothpick around his mouth. He kept his hands in his pockets, looking up and down the streets and the passers-by. No one looked at him. No one paid any mind to the man in the bright clothes with the long cape. They paid only slightly more attention to his big sign: MAGE FOR HIRE: SULLIVAN THE SENSATIONAL. Why would people bother to pay for his service, for a personal bodyguard or detective or (God forbid) assassin when the Mighty Men did it for free. They sat in their newfangled skyscraper, all glass and steel, being ordered around by the president. “No room in this world for an honest mage.”

Soon the foot traffic started to get thicker. Five o'clock. People were getting out from work. Sullivan bundled up his sign and jar, tucked it under his arm, and headed off down the street. He kept his ears and eyes open for any sign of trouble. Perhaps a robbery, or someone being held at gunpoint. Hell, even an old lady who needed help crossing the street. Anything. Maybe he wouldn't even ask for money from them. Not much, anyway. A small tip, perhaps? Some small gesture of faith towards a good Samaritan who didn't have enough money to pay next month's rent on his shitty apartment.

Sullivan stomped on past the grander and newer parts of the city to suburbs, then down Gordon Street to his apartment. The landlord was out front, planting flowers. He nodded at Sullivan and gave him a wink and a salute. “Afternoon,” he said.

“Hi, Bill,” Sullivan said with a half-hearted wave.

“Save anyone today?” Bill asked.

Sullivan dug his keys out of his pockets. “No.”

“Remember, I need your-”

“I'll get you my rent on time, Bill. Don't worry.” Sullivan had trouble getting the lie out of his mouth. The key scraped in the lock and he trundled upstairs and onto his third-floor apartment. The place, he realized as he tossed his keys onto the table by the door, needed cleaning. Dirty plates in the sink, dust on the carpets and various surfaces, trash overflowing...

“Gah.” Sullivan sank into the battered armchair. A puff of dust rose up around him, blasted from the upholstery. He waved the dust away, then sneezed. There had to be another way to make money. Being a superhero was just not a lucrative career. Unless you were gifted enough to have incredible talents and live somewhere the government would finance your actions, and Sullivan could count the number of people he knew that fell into that category on two hands. Some places wanted mages for cops, but that required moving somewhere and that required, of course, more money. It was some horrible catch-22.

He could always take another non-mage-related job. His friend Karl worked at a realtor’s and he could punch through walls, for God's sake. Where was it written that those born with phenomenal powers had to use those powers?

Sullivan pushed his way out of the chair and stomped across the tiny living room to the kitchen in three steps. “Fuck that,” he growled. Why else did mages exist if not to use their powers for good? Well, there were villains, but they didn't count. No, it was unthinkable. A mage had to be a hero, or else what was he? Wasted potential.

The wail of sirens echoed through the apartment. “Aha!” Sullivan grabbed his keys and burst out the door, taking the steps two at a time. He ran out of the apartment just in time to see the police cars zoom past, sirens blaring. He took off after them. Bill shouted something, but he couldn't hear it over the sounds of the sirens and his own footsteps. If only he could get there before the Mighty Men did...if there was something going on that the police themselves couldn't deal with...

But after four blocks of hard running and ducking around people, his lungs started to burn and his legs started to feel like rubber. Hardly a heroic sight, despite the cape. But the sirens were louder now, and people were paying attention. That was good. Publicity was the first sign to recognition.

He rounded the corner onto Meril Road and saw the police cars clustered around a storefront. The policemen had their pistols out, ducking behind the cars and talking urgently amongst each other. Jackpot. Sullivan slipped up to them and whispered, “What's going on?”

“Robbery,” the cop said back without looking at Sullivan. “Two. They've got a hostage in there.” He turned then, and frowned when he saw Sullivan. “You some kinda superhero?” he asked.

“Sullivan the Sensational,” he said with a grin and a flick of his cape. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Depends,” the cop said. “You a mind mage? We could use a way to alter the thoughts of the guys in there.”

“Energy,” Sullivan admitted. And not a very strong one at that, but he didn't say that. This could be his big break, and he didn't want to blow it.

“Can't have any civilian casualties,” the cop said. “Stay out of this.”

“But-”

“Shut up, people!” another police yelled. He scowled down the barrel of his snub-nose revolver, cap pulled low over his furrowed brows. “Get a squad round the back. We're going to cut these sons of bitches off.”

“Screw this,” Sullivan muttered. He stepped boldly forward, chest thrust forward and back straight, and once he was past the ring of police cars, he ran at the store front.

“Stupid mage! Get back!” someone yelled. Sullivan's heartbeat rang in his ears as he reached out for the door and shoved it aside. He had a brief view of the inside of the store, glass-fronted counters and shelves, an overturned till and someone face-down on the ground with two masked and armed men standing over her. Before the robbers had a chance to fire at him or do anything, he thrust his hand out and willed his energy into the air before him. The air became opaque, like fog made solid. He heard the short bark of gunfire, saw the muzzle flash, and the ping as the bullets hit his forcefield.

“Release the hostage!” Sullivan shouted from behind his shield. “Lay down your guns, and you will not be hurt!”

“Or what, mage?” one of the robbers asked.

“I'll be forced to bring you in myself!” said Sullivan. There was a brief moment as the robbers seemed to consider their options.

“We'll kill her if you come any closer,” they said.

The barrier began to dissolve as the air molecules began to move around, as they are wont to do. Fine. Sullivan didn't need the shield there anymore. He released his focus on the forcefield and let it dissolve, becoming more and more transparent and thin until it was just the empty air again. Sullivan put his hands up, a gesture of defeat. “I'll stay here. Just let her go,” he said. One of the robbers held her close, arm wrapped around her neck with the gun to her head, the other with his gun trained on Sullivan. The woman whimpered, hands clawing at the robber's arm. “Just...just let her be.” His heart beat a violent rhythm against the region of his throat.

They were almost at the door, walking backwards with their guns pointed at him when he acted. It didn't take much, just a small, thin forcefield near their feet, enough to make them stumble backwards and lose their footing. The first robber fell back on his ass, shouting as he fired his gun at the ceiling. Sullivan ran and dove behind one of the display counters. Where the hell were the police? They had to be coming around the back...

“Stupid mage!” one of the robbers yelled. He heard another gunshot and the splintery sound of a bullet hitting one of the walls. “Fuck it, let's get out of here,” the other said. There was the sound of scrambling footsteps, and then nothing. 

 

Sullivan leaped out from behind his hiding spot and ran past the woman, still on the ground and trembling. “Stop, thieves!” he yelled as he burst out of the shop's back door. He could just make out the shape of two men turning the corner and escaping before one of the police officers stepped in his way and blocked his path. “They're getting away!” Sullivan yelled.

“Stand down, citizen,” the officer said.

“Aren't you going to-”

“We have officers going after them, but we do not need help from you.”

The comment stung. “I helped in there! I stopped them from killing the hostage and-”

“And you let them escape,” the officer said. “If you'd let us handle it the way we intended to we would have apprehended the thieves and also saved the hostage. It was not your duty to assist us.”

Sullivan puffed out his chest and adopted what he hoped was a defiant and heroic pose. “I think you should be thanking me for what I've done.”

“Leave the heroics up to the Mighty Men, son,” the officer snapped. “Street mages like you just get in the way.” And the officer turned and began to yell orders to the rest of the police. A few cars took off down the street in the same direction as the escaped robbers.

Sullivan stood still for several moments, arms limp at his side. He felt ridiculous in his bright costume next to the police in their simple, official uniforms. Then he sighed and walked away from the crime scene and police, hands in his pockets. Fine. If they didn't want his help, he wouldn't give it to them. But Sullivan the Sensational would be a hero yet. He was a mage. He had to be a hero.

Bloodsucker

It was dark in the shadows of the streets here, dark in the narrow alleyways between the tall buildings that reached up to scratch the underbelly of the bright, bright sky. That was good. The touch of the sun burned Jiang's skin and hurt his eyes, like tiny hot needles piercing his flesh. The White Watcher was a dangerous thing, as all vampires knew, a vengeful god on its throne in the sky, looking to destroy each and every last child of midnight. Across the seas, back home in Xima, the twisty trees and forests and great mountains offered shade enough, and the constant clouds even more. To venture out under the gaze of the White Watcher for too long was death. Here in the First Union was death. But where there were bloodlings, there was the promise of life. And where there were people and cities, there were deals to be made. Money flowed through major cities like blood through veins. Quite worth the risks of being apart from the mother country, away from the Cradle of Night.

There was business to be done. Jiang dug his umbrella out from his suit jacket and fumbled with the catch. The suit felt strange, dark fabric cut too close to his body. It had to be custom-made for him; a store-bought suit made for a human wouldn't fit a vampire. The trousers were cut short and wide to accommodate broad hips, the sleeves shorter and looser than usual to let the wings fit. The robes that were traditional back home were far more comfortable, but the suits made the humans here on the western continent slightly more at ease with the vampires. Or so the theory went. Jiang had his doubts but the will of the viceroy was not to be questioned.

With a click the black umbrella unfurled, flower-like. The dark shadow it cast was a blessing, cool against his exposed skin and fur. He slipped a pair of dark glasses on, fitting the hooked arms around his large, flappy ears with his clawed fingers. Jiang stepped out into the bustling streets of the city. Cars honked. People rushed by. The sun blazed overhead. Jiang ducked his head down and marched on. Most people gave him a wide berth, intimidated by his dark, hunched form, high shoulders pulled up around his pointed ears. That was alright. Better that then a scuffle on the streets. The viceroy was expecting him.

He lingered at a crossing until the glass bulb suspended over the street turned from glowing red to green. He'd once been told how it worked. It was a process of capturing and channeling Elementary Particles and forcing them to, in this case, glow colors. Jiang never understood the details of it and he didn't care to learn more. Magic was something he saw little of in Xima and cared little for now. His people had always enforced their desires with fang and knife, with whispers in the dark. What need had they of magic?

As if in answer to his thoughts, he saw, as he glanced up, a mage. He cursed in Ximian and tried to pass unnoticed, but that was impossible; his umbrella and clothing made him quite obvious, almost as much as his large ears, blunt nose and dark skin. The mage glanced in his direction and strolled over to block Jiang's way. “What business do you have here?” the mage asked in a loud voice. He was dressed in the typical manner of those in the First Union gifted with magic, in a crisp suit and boots, much like a military uniform, but with a long, flowing cape over his shoulders.

“No business of yours,” Jiang said, glaring at the mage over the rim of his dark glasses. “Please, excuse me.”

The mage bared his white teeth in a scowl and stepped closer, looming over Jiang. People were stopping now, looking on at the mage and vampire. “It is my business, bloodsucker. It's my business if you're lurking around looking for trouble.”

“There will be trouble if you stop me, fashi,” he said. “Let me pass and there will be no trouble.”

“Is that a threat?” the mage growled. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Jiang swore that he saw the tall man's eyes flash red for a moment.

“No,” Jiang said. “A fact. I wish you nor anyone else here any ill will, so let me pass. I think if I were to be late to my meeting you would find that things might not end well for you.” There was a long silence punctuated by the constant noise of the city. Jiang tensed, his long finger-bones flexing and gripping tight against his arms. But the mage finally grunted something and swept on past, cape flapping behind him. Jiang let out a slow breath in a long hiss and moved on.

It was several minutes later when he finally arrived at the grand house where he was expected. The place was packed in close amongst other buildings, as was common in this part of the city, but its skinny, elegant windows and white paint job set it apart. A well-dressed human at the door admitted him in. Past the threshold, Jiang removed his glasses and closed his umbrella and let his eyes adjust to the change in light. Inside it was dark, lit by dim red lanterns instead of glass bulbs. Inside there were vampires, most dressed in the dark suits common here. They nodded to Jiang when they saw him. One took his umbrella, and the other said, “He is expecting you.” Jiang licked his lips with a forked tongue and walked on, through the richly-decorated halls until he reached the grand double doors that led into the viceroy's study. He knocked, and waited. When he heard an old voice call out to him, he opened the doors, and entered.

Jiang barely got a chance to look at the elderly vampire with his grey hair and long mustachios before falling to the ground in prostration. “Great viceroy,” he began in Ximian, “this humble one begs that you will spare but a moment of your time, that you would be so generous as to grant me an audience.”

There was a moment of silence. “Rise, Jiang,” the viceroy said. Jiang stood, arms straigt at his side, but he did not make eye contact with the viceroy. “You're late, Jiang,” he said.

“A thousand apologies, viceroy. I ran into a mage on the street.”

“Ah.” The viceroy clicked his long teeth. “Damnable fashi always giving us trouble. Well, I have a proposition for you, Jiang.”

“This unworthy one is ready to accept.” The words felt horrible in Jiang's mouth, grease against his teeth.

“We have a new business opportunity,” the viceroy continued. “The northern province of this city is experiencing some disruptions. Police raids on minor gangs. Mages cleaning up the streets, both vigilantes and city-run ones. Pah. I propose, Jiang, that our family organize what businesses there are in the northern sections and drive out the mages. We have enough police on our payroll to make it possible. And I want you, Jiang, to lead this operation.”

“Viceroy, the honor is too great,” Jiang said. “Truly, this humble one does not deserve such.”

“You have proven yourself useful, and so, I have chosen you.” The viceroy waved a clawed hand, long wings and sleeves of robes fluttering around his skinny arms. “Cho will give you further details. You may leave.” Jiang bowed low so that his nose almost touched the rich red carpets and left, walking backwards so that he never turned away from the glorious presence of the viceroy until he was out the doors and it shut behind him. He stood and shuddered. Sycophancy did not suit him. But if there was an opportunity to increase their presence in the city and drive out the mages, well, that was all the better.

Malice

Curtis Clairmont Malice the Third sat high in the old building, frowning at the view the wide window offered him. Most people knew him as Lord Malice, the third man to bear that name. His father and grandfather had also gone by Lord Malice and their reigns had been cruel and terrible ones. Regions of the country had trembled in fear before them. Presidents, Prime Ministers and emperors had treated them with deep respect. The name Malice was one that commanded great power. Or had. Had, before the second Lord Malice had been struck down by the combined power of the Mighty Men and the First United Army.

“Nice day,” Curtis said to himself. He sipped water from his mug, a heavy and ponderous thing of pewter with the Malice family crest upon it. It was ugly, but family relics were all he had in the tower. Curtis stood and strolled away from the window and around the room. It was a large thing, built for great crowds and guests or perhaps some grand demonstration of a super weapon. It was not a thing for a teenage boy to live in by himself.

The metal steps clanked beneath his heavy boots as Curtis descended the rickety spiral stairs, something ripped straight from a lighthouse. It might have been. Malice Tower had been built hundreds of years ago and rogue mages might have stolen stairs from a lighthouse if they'd caught the fancy of Henry Malice, the respected man who'd built the ancestral home.

The Malice family had come across the seas from Mordania, the old country where wild things still roamed and civilization was half-rumor. That was when House Malice had lived up to its name. That was when it had taken the entirety of the emperor's power to drive the Malices from the shores of Mordania. And so a new reign of terror had begun under Henry Malice.

Curtis thought for the umpteenth time that he'd have to get his costume tailored, somewhere. The cape was cut too long, made for a much taller man with broader shoulders. The hood got in the way too, the boots were uncomfortable, and the mask he eschewed completely. He didn't even look the part of a Lord Malice. Too short, too round of face, hair too shaggy. It was dark, yes, always good, but plump lips and perpetually raised eyebrows ruined that effect. He looked, in short, too much like a school boy to ever be considered a serious threat. That was all he could be, or had to be. If his father or anyone in his family was around today, they'd expect it. The world expected it.

The click click of his footfall rang through the empty tower, reminding Curtis once again of how empty it was. It would be prudent, he thought, to get out and about in the country, to the city. He needed resources. His father had left him blueprints from the last failed attempt at world domination, or whatever his goal had been that time. “It was world domination two times ago,” he muttered, ticking the events off on his fingers. “Before that was money-grabbing. Last time was takeover of the Presidency through a show of power.” His father had never quite grasped the basics of democracy.

In the grand and echoing laboratory in the basement of Malice Tower, Curtis flopped down in a chair, frowning as he looked out over the room around him. All outdated equipment, dusty test tubes and glassware, colossal engines of his grandfather's invention, towers of coils meant to harness the Elementary Particles. “I don't have the resources,” Curtis observed. “No money. Nothing.” What was left in the Malice coffers? Not enough to attempt anything approaching world domination. The Mighty Men would laugh at his pathetic attempts. Look, they'd say, the little Malice boy is trying to be a supervillain! And that would be an insult, wouldn't it? Laughing at him, at his family. At his father.

But it had to be done. Villainy was in his blood.

Curtis studied the blueprints covering the cork board on the other end of the room, the white lines on blue dim in the half-lit room. “Couldn't have explained it to me before you went and got yourself imprisoned, huh Dad?” No, of course not. His father had been a man of too much ambition and pride.

First thing's first. Understanding the plans came before scrounging up resources or even worrying about the Mighty Men or whatever other threats the mages of the First Union posed. Priorities.

So once again Curtis settled down on the metal table in the center of the lab, blueprints spread about, and set to deciphering them.