Alex Black

The streets of Downland are never empty. Quiet, sure. Safe, sometimes. But never empty. The inhabitants take pride knowing that people steer clear of Downland when the sun goes down. Most citizens of New New York never even leave the bright lights and illusion of safety, which makes Downland all the happier. Despite it's private residents, Downland has thriving businesses and shops. Most notably, “Carroway Detective Agency and Lounge”. Once famous for stopping no11 on the top 15 most wanted list of powered individuals, Carroway Detective Agency and it's lead detective, Heston Carroway, have fallen in recent years, now operating as the go-to for missing pets and cheating spouses.

So he sits. In his office, at his desk, and in the lounge, where he helps himself to the liquor cabinet and reflects on past glories.

“I could've taken all 15 myself!”

He shouts into the empty lounge. Heston is a burly man. Never out of shape, but about as wide as he is tall. If he told you he beat a powered unarmed, you might believe him. You would be wrong, of course. That credit is reserved for the glowing blue revolver strapped at his hip, half as big as his leg. Carroway draws the revolver, its blue lining illuminating the otherwise lightless room. Bottle in one hand, revolver in the other, he stumbles from the lounge to his office, murmuring to himself.

“...number...11...I coulda...”

He kicks the door shut behind him and carefully rests the half empty bottle on his desk, then promptly collapses onto what he would call a bed; an old pillow and two torn blankets. Heston is out cold. Whether the low rumbling is his snoring or labored breathing, he is out. Outside his office, driving onto the road from the dirt, is a devastating scene. A cherry red mustang. Heston loves antiques. This car is something he would see in a magazine and imagine himself driving with a beautiful woman. The open road, wind blowing in his fading hair. But even Heston Carroway, AutoMag subscriber, would fail to identify what used to be an antique mustang. Both bumpers missing, windows broken, probably more parts missing than not. It's engine sputters and dies after making it across the road. A woman stumbles out and quickly gathers herself. Dressed in an all black dress, now damaged from wherever this woman came from, she grabs a briefcase from the wrecked mustang and walks up to Carroway's office.

She reaches the entrance of “Carroway Detective Agency and Lounge”. Shaking, she leans against the wall and takes slow, deliberate breaths. Everybody outsources to powered contractors these days. When New New York tried to pass legislation banning all non-powered individuals from working on criminal cases, the public wasn't shy from sharing their opinions. Barry Bartlett, Samantha Barrett, and Chris Harper, all reporters, pushed stories opposing the “powered protection” bill. Anti bill sentiment was growing from both sides until Bartlett, Barrett, and Harper all disappeared forever. The bill didn't get passed, but the message was clear. It was happening whether they were allowed to or not. Eventually people stopped speaking out. Then they stopped asking. In the 5 years since, they would grow complacent, whether to fear or feigned ignorance. This is why Heston had to add “and Lounge” to his business. Also because as he now gets regular deliveries from the brewery under “work expenses” straight to his office.

The woman with the briefcase knocks on the door. She is frantic, but calmer now. After nobody answers, she knocks again, only to see the door slowly open. She peeps her head inside, sees Detective Carroway asleep on the floor, and reaches around for the light switch. After flicking it on, Carroway slowly awakens, and sees her in the doorway, masked by the lights outside the office. Seeing what to him is just a blurry figure, he leans up and wipes the sleep away from his eyes. He goes to get up and waves the blurry figure over. The woman shuts the door and walks over, seemingly calm again. He begins to make out more as he becomes more awake, now seeing the woman's figure walk over to his desk. Heston makes it to his desk, plops down in the chair, and turn to face the woman. She approaches, and gently places the briefcase on the desk.

“Detective Carroway?”

Heston looks in her eyes and hesitates. He knows this woman. Quickly he begins to cycle through possibilities in his head.

“Someone from the neighborhood? No, they don't talk to you anymore.”

“A spurned bar patron? A client? Impossible.”

He takes another look. Now in the light, we see that the woman's face is smeared with dirt, clothes torn as if an animal had gotten to it. She has been crying. But now she stands. Waiting. Heston leans back in his chair, stunned. It's Samantha Bartlett. The reporter. He gathers himself.

“You're Samantha Bartlett. The reporter.”

“I am.”

She answers. She doesn't seem bothered by the question but that what she has to say is more important than being missing without a trace for over 5 years. Heston stands up promptly and offers his hand to Samantha.

“Ms. Bartlett. I'd love to take your case. What you must've gone through... Don't you worry, I'm on your side. You know don't you. Who's behind it all?

She softly shakes his hand and goes to open the briefcase.

“I don't.”

She says. She takes out a picture from the briefcase and flips it over to show Heston.

“But I know who kidnapped me.”

Heston looks down at the photograph. It's an old ID picture from years ago. It's of a man. Jet black hair and a faded scar across his throat. His eyes, black and cruel. His smile, cold and empty. Jack Gage, 34.

But Heston knows him as something else. Something more personal than Jack Gage, 34. Something familiar. Something dark, and horrifying.

No11.

by Your friend and comrade