Psych Investigation Episodes: Episode IV

By Kevin Weinberg

Jack returns once again in this fourth and longest installment of the series. In this episode, morality is questioned, secrets are uncovered, and the awaited rematch between two terrible forces shake the very foundation of the Psych organization.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Weinberg
• Release date: Oct 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311422040

Kevin Weinberg

Author of Questing Sucks! And the Psych Investigation Episodes series.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Strike Two

From the moment this began, Michael knew it was going to be a long, arduous night. He struggled not to let the catcalls and cheers from overly drunken men draw him in and break his concentration. But good Lord, if this wasn’t a test of his willpower, then what was?

He avoided looking at the vodka-filled shot glass on the table in front of him. It was almost as though Paro was intentionally trying to torture him. It was bad enough he’d again been put in one of these messed-up situations, but why here, of all places?

I reckon they’re testing the limits of my loyalty. That’s gotta be it.

Michael sighed. He tried to be the best person he could—really, he did. He went to church on Sundays, called his momma whenever he had the chance, and he donated a quarter of his pay to the children’s foundation, a local charity aimed at putting food on the tables of the lesser fortunate.

But was he perfect? Nah, of course not. But so what? All men had their vices, right? For Michael, it always came down to two things: women and alcohol, the unholy combination of a pretty face and a shot of something strong enough to make her seem even prettier. Alcohol and women: the two greatest forces on earth, each alluring enough on their own. But put together? Michael frowned. The two together formed an insurmountable wall of temptation. And this was no secret, either. Everyone knew how he was when it came to his vices.

So why then, of all the places on earth, did Paro decide to pull this thing off at a strip club in downtown Manhattan?

The underground bar rocked with the vibrations of dance music; angels out of heaven shook things that would make any man drool, while other, equally beautiful—and scantily dressed—women walked from table to table carrying round serving trays. This was one hell of a nice place. The lighting was dim, and the atmosphere surprisingly tasteful and clean. Michael relaxed into his comfortable red chair, resisting his urge to put his feet up on the small table in front of him. Occasionally he had to lean forward and steady his drink when the music picked up and the glass began to slide.

I had no idea this kinda’ place was right here on lower Broadway.

Michael inhaled as one of the serving girls headed his way. Hey there, stud, she said with a smile. He smiled back, but he resisted the urge to give her too broad a smile. Dang, but she was smoking: tall, cherry-blonde, and lethally sexy. The sight of her fishnet-covered thighs alone was enough to bring a man to his knees. But add in those—

"Cut it out right now, Melissa’s voice chimed in his ear. Look at her one more time and I’ll come out there and poke your eyes out, perv."

Michael wanted to whimper. Along with the audio, HQ had provided new high-tech contact lenses, which gave his team, waiting in the back room, a full visual of the situation; they saw what he saw. So now, in addition to this inhumane torture, he had to deal with Melissa’s criticisms every time his eyes seized control of his body and decided to do a little…investigating. And since the forbidden sights were literally everywhere in this club, Michael had spent most of the evening staring at either the floor or the ceiling. He was glad for the chance to look someplace else.

He returned his attention to the lovely serving girl. Hello, darlin’, he said, cursing Melissa in the back of his head. All he wanted was a little peek. Was that so horrible?

Can I get you another drink? She lowered her eyes to the table. Oh, never mind, you haven’t finished that one yet.

Not by choice! Michael wanted to scream. Instead, he tipped his cowboy hat. I’m just trying to, ah, pace myself, ya know?

So you’re a light drinker? She giggled. That’s so cute.

Ouch.

If only she knew. I bet I could out-drink any of these guys in here. Damn, I’ve got a reputation to uphold, and right now it’s being ruined.

The girl spun around and made her way over to another table. Judging from the way she abruptly moved her back, it wasn’t a stretch to assume that she’d just wiggled her butt at Michael, which of course he didn’t get to see, thanks to Melissa. Maybe Jack was right about what he’d said back when they’d first met. Maybe she was a fun-hater.

"Michael, keep your eyes peeled, Paro ordered. Tip your hat twice if you notice anything out of the ordinary."

This was becoming too frustrating to bear. How was he supposed to keep his eyes peeled when the slightest tilt of the head resulted in a death threat from Melissa? Tch. They shoulda’ left her home.

The song changed, and from the first beat, Michael’s temptation grew to new heights. This was a wild, upbeat song—one that was sure to have the fine gals on stage showing off some of their choicer moves. And here he was, forced to remain sober and avert his eyes. Or was he? Did he really need to sit here and take orders from a kid who shouldn’t have been here in the first place? Officially, he wasn’t supposed to drink. That was the only real prohibition on this mission. This no-look rule was nonsense.

And I ain’t afraid of Melissa. I’ll be dammed if I’m gonna let her tell me what I can and can’t do.

Michael grinned and turned his attention to the front stage, where a group of bikini-clad women slowly approached the poles, pausing every few steps to dance, before inching their way ever closer to the front of the stage. Come to think of it, a few of them looked familiar, which was oddly unsettling. While Michael no doubt fell along the more perverted half of the male species, he didn’t think he’d been to so many clubs that he would vaguely recognize the dancers.

I reckon it’s time I reevaluated how I live my life.

Ladies and gentlemen, the announcer began, please direct your attention to center stage. Tonight we’ve got a special lineup for you. Beginning from the left, we’ve got Jasmine. What’s say we give a round of applause for Jasmine? Give it up for Jasmine, everyone.

The men broke out into more cheering and whistling. Michael was only a moment from hopping out of his chair and clapping his hands, when Melissa’s voice crackled in his ear. "Don’t even think about it, buster."

Michael’s heart sank. This just wasn’t fair. Not to mention this mission probably wouldn’t succeed. So why did he have to sit here and watch everyone else get to have all the fun? He wanted to drink alcohol and stare at boobs too! There was no way he’d be able to forgive Paro for this, and what made him all the more resentful was how badly he’d been misled.

Last week, when Paro had approached him and asked him to be bait again, Michael had immediately declined. He still remembered how awful things had turned out the first time he’d attempted to lure out Cyrus’s band of psychopaths, and no amount of assurances from Paro about his safety had been able to change his mind. Looking back, Michael now realized he should have remained firm in his decision—and he would have, too, if not for the discovery that this particular mission would place him inside a high-end strip club. Boy had he been taken in for a sucker.

Not only was he not allowed to drink and, thanks to Melissa, appreciate the sights, but he also had literally no idea what the plan here was, who they were attempting to lure, and what made Paro so sure they would be here today. Cyrus’s goons were maniacs, no doubt, but they weren’t dumb maniacs. Their plan the last time around was flawless, and if not for Jack and Paro’s last-minute rescue, Michael didn’t think he’d still be breathing. Nothing about this seemed right or made any kind of sense. Just what was he supposed to be doing here—and why?

"Michael, Paro’s voice cut in, urgency in his words, drink up—now."

Michael didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. Was drink up a metaphor for something? Or was Paro actually telling him it was okay to drink?

"Hurry! You’re hearing me properly. Drink up and then order another shot."

Michael shrugged. None of this made sense, but now that he thought of it, he was a loyal member of Paro’s team, and who was he to argue with orders, right? If Paro said to drink, then he’d just have to take one for the team. Also, it meant he’d have another chance to get a look at that foxy waitress.

As yet another customer delivered a hard slap to her backside, Clair swore that she would personally rip off the faces of every disgusting pig in this place. Of all the jobs she’d done for Cyrus, this one was, by far, the least enjoyable.

She felt exposed in nothing but a bra and panties. She much preferred the comforting embrace of a wedding dress or the black of a widow. Still, she would put up with it for now, as the rewards would far outweigh the humiliation she must suffer for just a short while longer.

She glared at the pervert who’d touched her, then made her way to the bartender, who was quick to place another dozen shot glasses on her serving tray. When he too gave her a slap on the bum and told her to go get ‘em, she decided that his death would be the most painful of them all.

Clair looked on at the other girls here with disdain. At first, she’d expected them to be pitiful creatures forced into a life of male oppression. But low and behold, most of them not only didn’t mind working here, but many even seemed to enjoy it! Humanity—all of it deserved the hells that she had and would continue to bring upon it. And yet, there were those with the audacity to claim she was the villain in this.

Clair waited until no one was looking and then set the serving tray down on a vacant table not far from the bar. The place was crowded, and no one would pay too much attention to her. Besides, she’d had enough of these men and their unruly hands. The thought of what she’d do to them in only a few moments was enough to cause her to chortle, which thankfully the blasting music disguised.

Careful not to arouse suspicion, she once again made her way from table to table, this time without a serving tray. She made sure not to remain in one place for too long, and she ignored the pigs who asked her for a lap dance. Ugh. How much longer must she wait to burn the flesh from their faces?

She licked her lips when she spotted her target. He hadn’t moved from where he’d been sitting all along. Something had changed, however; for some reason, the Carebears had allowed him to drink. Did this mean they no longer expected her to show up? Not that it mattered. Drunk or sober, he was as good as dead. And he was waiting for her.

I found you.

All night he had been sitting there, clearly waiting for her to make an appearance. It was amazing, really. Just how stupid were the Carebears? Were they so eager to die that they would attempt the same exact strategy twice and expect a different result?

It was actually offensive, in a way. Their plan was so simple that it constituted an insult on their intelligence. Clair had surveyed the place enough to assume that there were no other Psych operatives here except the cowboy, which meant that a few dozen—or possibly more—of them were gathered in the back room, waiting to leap at her the moment she revealed herself. Basically, the same exact thing they’d tried the last time and failed to accomplish.

Such idiots. It’s no wonder Cyrus wants to eradicate them. They are an insult to Psychs everywhere, those Carebears.

When would they that learn that, in the end, no matter how long it might take, Cyrus always made good on his word? The policy was simple: kill the enemy, kill the enemy’s friends, and kill the friends of his friends. This began with that Japanese man, Shou, it had extended to his brother, Kazou, and now, here tonight, this particular game would end with the death of the cowboy’s team. It was a matter of honor—showing the Carebears that no amount of planning or precautions would ever make them safe. And if they were searching for a fight, then a fight they would receive.

Such stupidity. Bringing him here—bringing him to me. You just never learn, do you? You’re all going to pay for what happened to Robbie.

Clair felt a pulse in the back of her head, a sensation she knew to be Ems, who was telepathically reaching out to her. Ems had been checking in with her every few minutes, but this time, Clair detected a sense of urgency. That meant things were almost ready to be set in motion. Just a few more minutes until breach. Clair chortled. The Carebears really were just a bunch of brainless animals.

She reached the front of the club, reversed her direction, and then headed back for the cowboy. It was time to say hello—and then goodbye.

Chapter 2: Know-It-All

Michael was so busy hooting at the dancers on stage that he didn’t see her coming until it was too late.

With three shots of vodka warming him up, it had seemed like there would be a positive end to the night after all. The drinks settled his nerves and made him a bit giddy—yeah, he was that kind of drinker, and he took pride in it, too.

There were different kinds of drinkers. Some folks got angry after a few too many, others passed out or fell into deep depressions, and then there were always the love-struck saps; men who would turn into sudden romantics after one-too-many Jameson’s and confess their undying love to every other girl they came across. And then there were the giddy kinds of drinkers—the embarrassing kind.

Once Michael had knocked back a few shots, the only thing he wanted to do was jump up on stage and start singing along with the rest of the girls. What? Just ‘cause he was a guy didn’t mean he couldn’t get on that pole and show the ladies what’s what. He had a cowboy hat. He could do it if he really wanted. He might have, too. Michael became a force to be reckoned with when he was enjoying himself.

And then she showed up, and it felt as though the alcohol in his blood dried up or had simply evaporated. It was her. No doubt about it. She actually showed up. And just the sight of her was enough to sober him up.

I think I’m gonna be sick.

The place had quieted somewhat, as the dancers had left the stage and were now interacting with the guests, who appeared more than willing to spend some one-on-one time with the lovely ladies. Michael had been only seconds from ordering another drink when she appeared. At first, he didn’t recognize her. She was skilled at blending in.

At present, she looked like any other gorgeous girl walking around here. But it was her voice that had given her away. Michael would never forget the way her words could be so soft and sweet sounding while giving off the unmistakable impression of hatred and revulsion.

Hello, cowboy. Looking for me?

Michael gulped. He looked around the room. Why weren’t Paro and the others charging out of the backroom and arresting her? Was anyone else seeing this? Immediately, he tipped his cowboy hat twice, just as Paro had told him to do if something came up.

Clair smiled and moved towards him. She extended her arms, placing her hands on each of his shoulders. Then she came in closer, climbing up and letting her right knee occupy the gap between his legs, so that she was half-standing, half-kneeling over him. The couches were large, so there was more than enough room to fit them both—which was intended in its design.

Michael tipped his cowboy hat another two times, then another two after that. What were they waiting for?

You’ve been here all night waiting for me, haven’t you? she asked. I bet you were starting to think I wasn’t going to come. She brought her other knee up, now fully on the couch in front of him. She moved her lips close to his ears, and whispered, You found me.

Michael’s neck dampened with sweat. With her sitting this way in front of him, his eyes were left with no choice but to stare at the exact thing Melissa had threatened him not to look at. And now, more than fearing for his life, he feared for the effect a beautiful girl was having on him while partially intoxicated.

Snap out of it, he told himself. She’s a psychopathic murder, and she’s also just a kid, Melissa’s age.

Michael averted his eyes. Where was Paro with the backup? What were they waiting for? They needed to hurry up and get over here. If possible, he didn’t want to talk to the girl. He was just supposed to be bait. Not to mention she was a nutcase, and she could use Manipulation to turn his face into melted cheese at any time she wanted.

Thankfully, she got off his lap. She placed a finger on his neck and slowly walked around towards the back of the chair, lightly scratching him in the process. She again grabbed his shoulders and leaned in closer. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her hot breath on the nape of his neck.

How do you feel like dying tonight, cowboy?  Michael shivered; not because of her words, but because of the hideous chortling that came after speaking them. I’ve been waiting for this.

Michael tipped his cowboy hat again—or tried to. Before he could grab it, he felt it lifted off his head. He looked up and saw his hat in Clair’s hands. She tossed it aside. Michael tried to remain calm. They could still see through his eyes. But if so, why weren’t they coming out to help?

Either they’ve all fallen asleep on the job, or something wrong is going on back there.

You’re so tense, she said, massaging his shoulder muscles. Could it be that you’re afraid? Of me? She chortled. Or is it because you’re starting to wonder just how stupid your friends really are, that they would think to try something like this again.

Michael lost control of himself. What do you know? he snapped. You’re the dumb one for showin’ up here tonight. You’re not gonna be able to walk out of here, doll. I reckon you should just turn that pretty booty in now and save us all the drama.

That’s funny, she said, chortling. Her grip on his shoulder became painful. Just how stupid do you think we are?

What do you mean? He flinched as her grip tightened yet again. The girl was weirdly strong for a Manipulator, and one of her size.

Let me guess. This was your plan: show up here to lure me out, have a few teams stationed outside, and the rest of your forces in the backroom. Then, when I revealed myself, have everyone run in to arrest me. Is that it? How laughable.

Michael tried, but was unable to mask his reaction while her hands were on his shoulders, which began to stiffen. Acid burned its way down his stomach. Everything she just said was true. That was indeed the plan, exactly as Paro had described it. A bunch of undercover recon officers as well as a few Psychs were waiting outside to fight Cyrus or anyone else who tried to barge their way in here, while Paro and the others waited in the back to spring on Clair.

I’m right, aren’t I? And how could I not be? Again, she tortured him with more of that awful laughter. Even a child could see through something like this.

As Michael thought on it, he realized it was a pretty obvious plan. Paro had promised him things would be different this time, but Michael was beginning to doubt him. This was exactly the same thing they’d tried the first time, and that had failed miserably. Why would this be any different? Last time, Clair showed up, and soon after, dozens of Cyrus’s men had assaulted them. Would that happen again? Would this be a repeat?

"Oh, you’re really starting to shake, cowboy. Could it be that you’ve finally understood the truth? How your team used you as a pawn to lure me out, letting you die in the process? Clair sighed. I’m sure you know the drill by now. You’ve got a Comm picking all this up, right? Well, go ahead and tell them that Cyrus is just as keen on keeping our existence out of the public’s eye as you are. Just like last time, we’ll wait until you’ve evacuated this place before finally settling this once and for all."

Michael could normally handle his alcohol, but right now, it was a constant struggle not to throw up all over the floor. So after all the promises Paro had made, it was going to turn out like last time after all? Why had Michael ever agreed to go along with this? How could he have been so stupid?

Not this again. God, anythin’ but this. I can’t go through this again.

The rest of the club was oblivious to what was going on between him and Clair. As far as they were concerned, this was just a friendly chat between a stripper and her favorite customer. Regardless of all other factors, his obligation as a Psych was to protect these innocent people, to put their lives and well-being before his own. If this was going down, he needed to get them out of here before they got themselves hurt.

But then what? Would Cyrus’s men come out of the walls? The ceiling? Last time, they’d come up from the sewers and started massacring the Organization’s recon officers. Would this be just like then? Would it end with him dragged through a sewer, on his way to some hidden base where he’d end up tortured and dissected at the hands of some sick-in-the-head Manipulator?

Michael, his hands shaking, lifted up the corner of his shirt, where the microphone was hidden. P-Paro, do you copy? When there was no response, he tried again. Paro! Answer, please. I’ve made contact. What are you people doing back there?

Michael waited for a response. None came. This was growing increasingly weirder every second. Why wasn’t Paro responding? Or Melissa, for that matter? Was there a problem with the audio and visual feed? But if that were the case, wouldn’t they have eyes on him through other means? Something wasn’t right here. Something was dangerously wrong.

Clair tapped him on the shoulder. What are you waiting for, cowboy? I don’t have all day. Order your men to evacuate the civilians in here so we can finish what we started last time.

I’m trying!

Try harder. I would think your Carebears would have been rushing out of those doors by now. Unless… Michael twisted in his chair and looked up into her eyes, which peered back at him with both pity and delight in equal measure.

Unless they’ve abandoned you here.

Never! Michael shouted at her. Paro would never do that!

Oh? Maybe they had a last minute change of heart. Maybe they realized what a stupid plan this was and booked it out the back door. Clair chortled. Maybe you’re all alone in here now.

Michael’s mouth dropped. He refused to accept even the possibility that Paro would send him here and then abandon him to die. Though even as he fought to remind himself of that fact, his deeper fears took over, and his courage inched closer to collapse.

Either way, it’s time to have some fun.

What do you mean? Michael asked.

Either your team has abandoned you, or they’re too frightened to come out and face me. And since we offered you the chance to evacuate the civilians and you refused, we’ll just have to kill them all. If you think we’re going to stop simply because of a few witnesses, you’ve learned nothing from the last time we met.

Michael jumped out of his chair. She couldn’t mean what she was saying. There were at least two-hundred innocent people in here. He turned around to look at her.

Now just hold up a sec, okay? Please, just give me a minute. You don’t have to go around doin’ that just yet. I’m sure there’s just a communication problem here. There ain’t no need to go killing all these people.

It’s too late, Clair said, adding another of her ear-splitting chortles. She tapped the side of her head. "I’ve been in contact with my Telepath this entire time. Now that I’m sure we’ve got you trapped like captive animals, I sent her the go-ahead. Any moment now, Cyrus and the others will be moving into position. You’re all going to die here! Starting with you, cowboy."

Michael froze as terror overtook him. How had he allowed himself to be put in this situation? Just like last time, it was happening again, all over. He’d only just recovered from those horrible events, and now, again! Again he’d have to be put this through this! And why? What was the purpose of this mission? Why had Paro put him out to die using the same god-awful tactics that had almost killed him last time?

Hey, what are you doing? someone asked. Both Michael and Clair turned their heads in the direction of the voice, which belonged to one of the serving girls, who marched up to them. Shouldn’t you be serving drinks? I found your tray on the floor over by the bar. Just what do you think you’re doing here?

Clair grinned; an evil, sadistic smile left no doubt about her intentions. She raised one of her hands and then extended it towards the woman’s face.

No, Michael thought frantically. No!

What am I doing? She chortled. I’ll show you.

No need, the serving girl said. You’re fired.

The serving girl threw out her own hand and gestured. The couch, which Michael had been sitting on only a moment before, lifted off the ground and soared directly at Clair. It crashed into her, knocking her off her feet and landing on top of her, pinning her down.

What the hell? Michael shouted. What’s going—?

The music stopped. The doors to the club slammed shut with a frightening bang. All around, people began knocking over tables, couches, and chairs, and half-naked strippers, alongside their male customers, began ripping off the couch cushions or reaching under the upturned tables as if searching for something. Everywhere he looked, Michael saw the club’s customers reappearing with weapons: handguns, assault rifles, and knives—all standard recon officer grade weaponry. Even the silver-haired bartender pulled out a twelve-gauge shotgun and leapt over the bar.

Then, one at a time, all moved to surround Clair, who was first pushing the couch off herself and getting back to her feet. She appeared just as confused as Michael felt. People began shouting at her.

Get on the ground! Now!

Clair opened her mouth as if to yell something back. Unfortunately for her, one of the half-naked strippers dove at her, knocking her back down before she could say a word.

Michael stood in place, confused and unable to figure out what was happening. The back-room doors flung open, and Paro dashed out, followed closely by Melissa, Sarah, Generals Alana Harris and Deven Moore, and Cemmera’s Op. team.

Clair wailed like a spoiled child. Get off me! Get off me you Carebear freaks!

Michael watched as his team-leader ran over, along with the rest of his team. Paro shouted into an old-fashioned radio while he made his way to Michael.

"Now, now, do it now! I don’t care if she’s in there with them! We gave her fair warning. Do it now!" Paro lowered the radio. Michael stared at him. Someone needed to explain to him what was going on here.

Are you okay, Michael? Paro asked. Did you sustain any injuries?

No, but what in all the hell just—

We’ll explain later, he interrupted. For now, just know that you did great. Everything has gone perfectly according to plan. This is it. This is the victory we’ve been waiting for. Everything is about to turn around for us, Michael. History is about to be made.

History? I don’t understand. For God’s sake, at least tell me something. Someone, anyone? Why do the strippers have guns!

"Because they’re not strippers, Melissa growled. They’re honorable men and women who just happen to be out of uniform. They’re recon officers, you dolt!"

W—what? So then, all night I’ve been staring at…

Your coworkers, Melissa finished for him, shaking her head.

But why didn’t you tell me? If I had known they’d be into something like this, I would’ve spent way more time at the office!

Melissa made an ugh sound, as if to show her disgust. From now on I’m calling you Jack number two.

Michael shrugged. "I can live with that. But will someone please tell me why…why any of this is happening?"

Sarah placed her soft hands on top of his own. I know you’re confused right now, but you need to trust me that there was no other way. It’ll all be explained soon. But for now, let’s just say that you needed to be as misled as Clair was. It was the only way to draw them out.

"Draw who out?"

His question was soon answered, only, not from Sarah or anyone else on the team. It was Clair who shed some light for him.

Let me go, you worthless scum! she shouted, trying to claw and bite her way to freedom. But it was useless: recon officers were already binding her hands and feet, and one looked to be preparing a gag.

Any minute now, daddy is going to come bursting in here, and you’re all going to die! All of you!

You think so, huh? Paro asked, stepping forward. All eyes in the room turned to him. He hovered over Clair, who was now on her belly, flopping around like a beached whale. He knelt down in front of her.

You remember me, right?

Clair spat in his face, but Paro didn’t seem bothered. He merely wiped it off. "So you do remember me. My name is Paro, and I just saved your life."

Saved my…life? Clair asked.

Of course. Paro’s face was hard, unforgiving. It was an expression he rarely wore, and when he did, it meant that he was on the verge of doing something he wasn’t particularly happy about. Yet there was no emotion in his voice. No softness, caring, or consideration.

I’d like to tell you a story, Clair. Is that okay?

A story? she repeated. What story?

I’m glad you asked.

Michael didn’t think it was possible, but Paro’s expression somehow turned darker. His eyelids lowered, his voice dropped to just above a whisper, and a sickening grin spread across his face.

Once upon a time, way back in the nineteen twenties, America made the sale of alcohol illegal.

S-so?

I’m not finished, Paro said. Now, if you were a good girl and enrolled in school, you’d have learned that this was called the prohibition era.

What’s that got to do with anything?

I said I’m not finished. Interrupt me again and you’ll be gagged. Paro waited, as if to give her the opportunity to call him on his threat. Michael didn’t have the slightest idea of what Paro was doing, but he was surprised to see Clair meekly close her mouth and let him speak.

So, he continued, during this prohibition era, people known as bootleggers would build tunnels and other secret passageways in order to smuggle liquor. As it just so happens, one of those old passageways happens to be right beneath this club.

At this, Clair’s eyes widened. What are you saying? Tell me! What do you know? And how?

Paro’s grin twisted, becoming something Michael had never seen before on him. It was horrifying. A sense of wrongness took him over. This face did not belong on the Paro he knew. This was the face of a monster—someone equally as bad as Cyrus: the look of someone about to inflict pain and enjoying it. So what was it doing on his team-leader?

Paro leaned in closer, positioning his face directly in front of Clair’s. What I’m saying is that a little birdie in a tree told me about this secret entrance. This birdie also told me your people had repaired it and planned to use it to ambush us today. So do you know what I did? I spent the last two weeks plugging up this hole with two-tons of titanium. Something not even an Unrestricted could break through.

No, Clair whispered. So that means I’m…I’m really caught?

Yes, you are. And you’re very, very lucky, too. Because there’s more.

More?

Paro nodded. And just for a moment, Michael thought he spotted the slightest hint of sadness in his team-leader’s eyes, hidden deep behind his mask of ruthlessness. Michael only had a vague idea of what was going on, but as he pieced it together, he had the impression he was about to hear something he really didn’t want to.

The rest, Paro continued, is something that only I and the generals know. Neither the recon officers nor even my team knows this.

What have you done? Clair asked, her eyes growing wet. Please, tell me.

As we speak, the tunnel beneath this place is about to be sealed off by controlled detonations, trapping everyone inside. Then, highly combustible gas will be released. Finally, in about five minutes, there will be one more explosion—and every single one of you freaks will be burned alive.

Paro! both Melissa and Sarah shouted. When were you going to tell us this?

Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It seemed he wasn’t the only one here who’d been kept in the dark about this plan. Even the recon officers—even Cemmera, of all people!—they began shouting in unison.

You coward! Cemmera spat. That is against the warrior code. Against the honor of the hunt! What kind of hunter would use such a horrible thing to kill their prey? You are willing to kill without looking your prey in the eye? That is beyond disgusting!

This is barbaric, Sarah said. Paro, is this just another bluff?

Alana merely looked away, as did Deven. Michael knew at once that this was indeed no bluff. Paro was serious. He was going to exterminate all of those people, the antithesis of everything an Investigative teams stood for.

Paro, bud, hold on now, Michael said. We don’t gotta take things this far. Now I still don’t know everything that just went down, but I understand that last part you just said, and please, you can’t do something like that. It just ain’t right.

We all make choices we need to live with, Michael. And this is one of them.

Michael nearly choked on his own disgust. Burning people alive? This wasn’t who they were. They were better than this, and this was not something he’d ever agreed—or would agree—to be part of. When all things were considered, Psych operatives were basically just a branch of law enforcement, not soldiers on a battlefield. Trapping people inside a cage and then burning them alive…this was not what they stood for.

I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, Clair begged. Please, don’t do this. My daddy will die.

Good, Paro said. They’ll all die. And then this will finally be over.

Even as Paro lifted the radio to his chin and continued to issue orders, Michael refused to believe what he knew to be true: Paro was about to order an execution on a massive scale. Genocide.

Requiem, what are you doing? Sebastian grumbled. Requiem refused to let go of his arm. Stop it.

Although Requiem was fond of the dear man, it was on occasions like these that she wanted to strangle him for his foolishness.

Darling, if you don’t come with me right now, we are both going to die.

What are you talking about? he asked. If we’re not in position when Cyrus signals for attack, we’ll never hear the end of it.

There’s not going to be an attack, Requiem said.

What do you mean?

Requiem moaned in frustration. She didn’t have the time to give this hardheaded man a play-by-play. But she knew he wouldn’t cooperate without at least some kind of explanation. So she inhaled and tried to explain it in one breath.

Last week, I received contact from your ever-so-delightful wife. She told me that two of Cyrus’s spies had been apprehended, and she was using them to feed false information about an ongoing operation to lure that horrible she-creature, Clair, into a trap. She told me that Cyrus had become too much of a threat, and now a kill-order has been placed on everyone associated with him. Long story short: if you’d like to avoid being toasted, Darling, I suggest you come with me right now.

Sebastian looked horrified. Alana wouldn’t do that. You’re misunderstanding what she said.

Requiem rolled her eyes. "Tell me, is this the part where we need to spend ten minutes discussing philosophy and human nature before you reluctantly agree that your wife is not an angel from heaven? Or can we forgo our usual banter and work on not getting incinerated? Honestly, Darling, it’s your choice.  I, personally, have always wondered what it would feel like to be a marshmallow toasted by a campfire."

Sebastian raised his finger, as if to voice an objection. But he lowered it immediately as Cyrus appeared from around a corner towards the darker end of the stretch of sewer that led to their point of breach, where all the others were gathered.

What are you two doing? he asked. It’s time to attack. Are ya trying to sit this one out?

Damn, Requiem whispered.

Water splashed under his feet as Cyrus approached them. He appeared in high spirits today. He gestured with his arms, holding them wide. Hey, what’s the matter with you two, looking all gloomy? You’re killin’ the mood.

Sorry, Cyrus, Sebastian said. We were just having a private conversation. We’ll head over there now.

Good. I’ll walk with ya.

Cyrus took three steps back the way he’d come when the first explosion rocked the tunnel, which caused the filthy sewer water to form waves and dust to leak from above. Even having expected it, Requiem still flinched at the deep booming sound.

What the hell was that? Cyrus asked.

Requiem closed her eyes and sighed. Our death.

Chapter 3: Trapped

Not many things were worth dying for. But as Cyrus’s lips peeled back and a crease formed on his forehead, Requiem supposed that she’d just found one of the few that were. Faced with a near certain death, she was glad that the last thing she’d see in this world would be the dumb look on that dreadful man’s face as he realized he’d been outsmarted. Yes, this was indeed worth dying for.

Requiem stood together with Sebastian, a few feet away from Cyrus, and together they watched him tracing the rungs of the ladder with his eyes; it should have gone through a hole leading up into the strip club where their planned ambush was to take place. Instead, a thick sheet of metal had plugged the spot where there was supposed to be a gap in the ceiling, meaning there was no way up.

Cyrus growled, and as if acting off reflex, all non-Psych troops or Psychs who had yet to earn the raven mark backed away. Clearly, they knew better than to be anywhere near Cyrus when he was angry. The man had a tendency to relieve the tension via random murder. Requiem tried to ignore the sound of their feet splashing up sewer water as they moved out of his way; it reminded her that things were about to become very painful.

A rumbling sound filled the dark tunnel as the forth explosive detonated, resulting in murmurs and sleeve grabbing among the panicked men and women huddling together in fear. Though, unlike the last three explosions, this one followed along with a sudden flash of light from the southern end of the tunnel.

Aside from Sebastian and Requiem, only those who had served with Cyrus the longest remained calm: people such as Davie and Ems, who appeared more concerned about the wellbeing of Clair than they did for their own selves.

How did this happen? Cyrus asked, his voice calm but his words commanding. Who was the one to set this thing up?

It was Cooper Riley, sir, someone said; it was too dark for Requiem to make out his face from the hundred-or-so other rogue fighters gathered together in the vile sewer. He’s one of our informants stationed at the training camp.

Cyrus swore and kicked his foot. The resulting splash of water came within inches of covering Requiem’s face in sewage. Luckily for Cyrus, the foul-smelling liquid missed her; otherwise, he would die just a little bit sooner than everyone else would.

Ugly halfwit, Requiem thought, unable to control the revulsion she felt at the mere sight of the man. Oh, how I do hope your death is the most painful of all of us. Perhaps God will grant me my last wish and I’ll live long enough to see you burn.

Requiem wasn’t a people person, and she bore a natural dislike of interacting with others. But when it came to Cyrus—or his little adopted wench, Clair—Requiem managed to find just a little bit extra room in her heart in which to hate the two. After what they did to her darling Jack, her angel! The thought of their eventual deaths consumed her dreams.

If we make it out of this, Cyrus said, I want Cooper Riley brought to me, wherever he is, along with any family or friends he might have. The intent behind his words was clear, though no one dared to voice any objection. In the meantime, we need to figure a way out of here. Ems, do you have the map?

I do.

Ems removed a paper map from her pocket and began unfolding it. Before she could finish, Cyrus impatiently ripped it out of her fingers then glanced down on it. A second later, he tore it into pieces and cursed, loud enough for all to hear.

There’s only four ways out of here, and I heard four explosions. They’ve got us trapped, I think.

What do think they’re gonna do to us? Davie asked.

Requiem would have liked to tell them herself, but she didn’t get the chance. Almost as soon as Davie had finished asking the question, a hissing sound came first from above, and then from all around. Even in the dark, Requiem could make out the fear in everyone’s eyes; they knew right away what was about to happen down here.

They’re filling this place up with gas! someone shouted. They’re gonna torch us! We’ll be burned alive!

Widespread panic broke out among the troops, with many darting their eyes around their surroundings as if searching for some place to run. Requiem didn’t bother; she knew it was useless. If only Sebastian had listened to her, they would have escaped to safety by now. But no, he just had to do things his way. She stood close enough to Sebastian that she could hear him shifting on his feet.

There has to be a way out of this, he said. Damn it all! We need to figure something out before it’s too late. I don’t have any plans to die here today.

Requiem shrugged. You may want to consider penning an opening in your schedule then, Darling, as we don’t appear to have much in the way of choice.

Is that supposed to be a joke? How can you be so calm about this, Requiem? Do you even realize what’s happening?

Requiem met his eyes. Of course I realize what’s happening. But let me remind you, Darling, that I was pinned down on a filthy floor and forced to watch the devil in a woman’s flesh put a knife through my brother’s heart. Somehow, things like this just don’t quite ‘do it for me’ any longer. And yes, I’ve tried mountain climbing.

Sebastian closed his mouth. Whenever she brought up the topic of her brother, he appeared at a loss for words. Not that she minded, of course. It wasn’t a topic she wished to delve all that deeply into, least of all at a time like this.

I’ve got an idea, Cyrus announced, drawing Requiem’s attention. Sebastian looked his way as well.

What is it? Ems asked.

If I put all my power into Reinforcement, I should have enough strength to tear down the entire ceiling. Then I can go greet our little Carebears and teach them a lesson.

Sebastian’s eyes widened. Hold on a second, Cyrus! If you do that, you’ll kill us all, even our Reinforcers. You’re the only one here who can survive the ceiling crashing down on us.

True, he agreed, but if you’re all going to die anyway, don’t ya think I might as well get us a little revenge in the process?

That’s…I suppose you’ve got a point. But sacrificing all of our fighters doesn’t seem the right way to go. Besides, we can still find a way out of this.

By all means, Sebastian, if you’ve got a suggestion, I’m willing to hear it.

I need time. Please don’t do anything rash until I’ve thought about it some more.

Cyrus glanced at his wrist despite not having a watch. I say we’ve got fifteen minutes before this place gets packed with enough gas to roast us all. I’ll give you ten to come up with a plan, ya got it?

Sebastian bowed his head. That’s all I need. Thank you. He turned to Requiem. Go look around and see if you can come up with some ideas. I’ll do the same.

I’ll help too, Ems said.

Same, Davie added.

Requiem nodded. I’ll go that way, she said, pointing towards the southern end of the tunnel.

All right. I’ll check the north passage, Davie and Ems, you two okay to check out the other two? When they nodded, he returned one of his own. Good. Then let’s get to it. There’s always the chance the detonation failed to completely seal us off, and it might be weak enough at one of the points that Cyrus can bash right through it.

Got it, Davie said. He and Ems hurried in opposite directions while Requiem spun around and headed off in her own.

The hiss of gas being released continued unabated as she journeyed into the darkness, shoving aside any of the frightened rogues who failed to get out of her way as she passed. She held them no ill will, though in truth, she didn’t particularly care if they lived or died. It was only Sebastian whom she wished to see make it through this, perhaps more so than even her own self.

I wonder if I even deserve to live, she thought. After everything I’ve done.

As she waded her way through the sewage, she struggled to get through the wall of terrified rogues, who took up more space than they were worth. After all they’d seen, it surprised her just how ... human they were. One would expect Cyrus’s band of killers to be a bit more fearless. Exactly how did he manage to recruit these men and women, anyway? Especially the non-Psychs. Where did a man like Cyrus find a bunch of normal humans willing to fight and die for a cause that not even Requiem or the other raven-marked Psychs understood?

I guess I’ll never know.

Requiem made her way through the cowering rogue troops, walking faster as she ventured closer to the southern end of the tunnel. Just as she managed to break away from the crowd, she paused as something odd sounding caught her attention.

"Not now!" shouted a voice from behind her in an angry whisper.

"It’s just that—"

Are you freaking kidding me? Look where we are. I said not now!

At least let me finish my thought! I’m just trying to—

Oh. My. God. What part of ‘not now’ don’t you understand? Is it the ‘now’ or is it the ‘not’?

It’s always ‘not now’ with you, you know that? It doesn’t even matter when or where. Every time I bring up Infamous: Second Son, you tell me you don’t wanna talk about it.

Because I don’t! Especially not—

What are you two arguing about? Requiem asked, turning back around, her curiosity now peaked. She wasn’t sure why she found their conversation interesting, but something bugged her. Shouldn’t you be searching for a way out of here?

It was dark, so Requiem took out her phone and used it to shine light on the two people, who for some reason were engaged in a heated debate while the seconds counted down to their death. Their appearance shocked her. The one on her left looked more-or-less like the rest of the rogues: torn clothing, battle-hardened eyes, and a scowl that implied a willingness to kill. What was odd, however, was the lack of grime on his apparel. Anyone who’d spent more than a few minutes down here should not have looked so…clean. It was almost as though he’d just gotten here. But aside from that, he did at least blend in with the others.

But the same could not be said for the other man, who stood to her right. In the dark, Requiem hadn’t been able to tell, but now, under the light of her phone, this man looked positively ridiculous.

No, ridiculous is too light of a word. Outrageously absurd is more fitting, I think.

It was almost as though he was intentionally trying to look the part—as if he’d based his appearance on nothing more than stereotypes and Saturday-morning cartoons.

He wore a bandana around his mouth in the fashion of a bandit, which by itself would only be somewhat out of place, but the rest of his attire was so absurd that Requiem wondered if the constant darkness had damaged her eyesight.

In addition to the bandana, he wore the following: an eye patch, a shirt with the words kill everyone written in red on the chest, a cape of all things, one which appeared made out of the same black plastic used in garbage bags, and to top it off, for some reason this man had come armed with a wooden sword at his hip.

Never, in all of her life, had Requiem seen anyone dressed so ridiculously…or had she? The thought made her smile, which she quickly forced into a frown as she recalled her situation.

Darlings, just what do you two think you’re doing? Why not help search for a way to safety?

Umm ... said the bandit slash pirate slash super villain. The bandana muffled his voice somewhat, but his words were still easily discernible. We’re, umm…new, sorry. First day on the job. We’re still getting the hang of things here.

Is that so?

Shut up, the other one whispered. Seriously, we’ve only been here for two damn minutes and you’re already— the man on the left closed his mouth, shook his head, and then said, ah, sorry, I didn’t mean what I just said.

Clearly, Requiem said, not in the least bit convinced. She eyed the two of them dubiously. Something was definitely out of place here. Who are you two? I don’t recall seeing you around.

The one on the left—whom Requiem now assumed to be the more sensible of the pair—opened his mouth as if to respond, but the one on the right spoke first, much to the apparent dismay of his friend—assuming they were even friends.

We’re, you know, just doing the ah, the stuff, he said. Just like you are, Requiem.

Hmm? You know my name? How flattering.

Ah! That’s ‘cause, umm, you’re our ah…our role model so we learned your name.

I am?

Yeah.

Well, that doesn’t answer my question. What are you two doing here and why are you busy arguing at a time like this?

Okay, allow me to explain, the one on the left began. We were just in the middle of—

Doing bad guy stuff, the ridiculous one interrupted. You know how it is, right? We’re just doing our jobs. Just like you. Just, ah, gettin’ stuff done, busy at work. Typical late-night overtime, right?

Requiem narrowed her eyes. Something really wasn’t right with these two. And for some reason, her curiosity was so strong that it managed to distract her from returning to the more-important task of searching for an exit that would lead her and Sebastian to safety.

Hey, I have a question, the ridiculous one said. Is that Cyrus over there on the other side of the tunnel?

Yes, yes it is, Requiem answered.

The ridiculously dressed man, without a moment’s hesitation, gripped his hands into fists and took a step in the direction of Cyrus. Before he could take a second step, the other one grabbed his elbow and yanked him back into place.

No, the sensible one said. Get a handle on your emotions. If I can keep my rage in check right now, so can you. Don’t forget why we’re here.

Ah…right, sorry.

What are these two men talking about? Requiem wondered. What a bizarre pair of individuals.

Requiem slowly wiggled her pointer finger at them. Something is going on with you two Darlings. I’m not sure what it is, but why do I have the feeling you’re not who you say you are?

The ridiculous one nodded as if her suspicions made perfect sense. Oh, that’s ‘cause my friend here didn’t have the time to get the right outfit.

Who, me? the sensible one asked, outrage in his voice. Are you serious right now? You look like a combination of Batman and Captain Hook.

Shuddup. You don’t even know what you’re saying. You’re just mad ‘cause I came prepared and you didn’t.

Prepared? You broke a wooden broomstick in half and you’re pretending it’s a sword.

"It is a sword."

The sensible one took a deep breath then let it out. Okay, do you remember what we talked about? How I would let you know when you started to annoy me?

Yeah.

"Okay, well, you’re starting to annoy me!"

Sorry…

Requiem stood in place, saying nothing while she watched the two of these bicker as if everything was just fine. Why were they so fearless? Either these two were the most courageous men she’d ever encountered, or they had no idea what was going on right now.

Darlings, are you two aware of what’s happening here?

The two men looked at each other as if unsure what response to give. The ridiculous one opened his mouth and made the Y sound, then held it, all while keeping his eyes locked on Requiem, as if expecting her facial expressions to give him the correct answer.

 Y…………no? I mean Yes. Err, I mean no, no, definitely not. Yes.

Requiem rolled her eyes. This man was so stupid it almost bordered on cute. She wondered if she should inform Cyrus that two of his men were acting strangely, but she decided not to. In all honesty, she didn’t care one way or another if Cyrus was betrayed. Actually, the thought was somewhat enjoyable.

Right now, she said, that hissing sound is gas being pumped into the sewers, which have been sealed off, trapping us inside. In a few minutes, we’re all going to die in a giant, fiery explosion.

W—what? the two men shouted together.

The ridiculous one looked around in a sudden panic. Are you serious?

I think she is, the other one said. Okay, sorry to disturb you…Requiem. We’ll be getting back to work now, so you can go back to whatever it was you were doing. He grabbed the ridiculous one’s shoulder and spun him around, lowering his voice. Let’s go.

We can’t! the other one shouted. Requiem was surprised it didn’t draw any attention, but then again, she suspected the rest of the rogues were too busy trembling in fear and preparing for the end to care why one of the troops was shouting.

What do you mean we can’t?

Requiem said they’re all trapped in here. We need to help them get out!

I’m sorry, what? Do you hear yourself when you talk? We just walked into the best possible situation. Every problem is about to be solved on its own. All we have to do is go!

But we can’t just let them all burn alive.

Yes we can! And we will! Now let’s get going.

No!

The two of them stopped speaking, and their attention turned towards the other end of the tunnel as Cyrus raised his voice and shouted, Time’s up! I’m bringing down the ceiling! Sorry boys—and gals—but I’ll make ‘em pay, I promise. Your deaths’ll be worth something, so no worries.

Requiem shook her head. What the hell was going on here?

Chapter 4: A Two-Sided Coin

As Paro counted down the seconds until it was time to radio in the kill order, he refused to let his team’s harsh words get to him. This wasn’t the first time they’d thought of him as a monster, and God help him, it wouldn’t be the last, either. Sometimes, the ends really did justify the means.

They can’t possibly understand, he thought. They don’t know what I know.

Putting aside their crimes against humanity, there were those in Cyrus’s band who knew a little too much about Paro’s history—knowledge that could destroy the organization. If the truth ever managed to leak, everything keeping the organization united would be undone, and it would collapse from within. And once that happened, Psychs would run free without restriction or control, doing as they pleased to whomever they wanted: complete and utter anarchy. It was for this reason that the cries of a young girl failed to sway his heart.

Please, don’t do this! Clair begged again. I can talk to them. They’ll turn themselves in.

Paro glanced down at the girl. Perhaps he was in fact becoming a monster, because as he looked on at her terrified face, he chuckled at the thought that something had finally stopped her from chortling. Yes, things weren’t so funny now, were they?

You think begging will help your ‘friends’? Paro asked. "Tell me, how many people have begged you? How many times has someone looked you in the eyes and pleaded? Are you even eighteen