Xole and the Groundhogs left the subway station and made their way along the tracks before reaching a door on the far end, the station barely visible at their distance. Opening it, they were greeted by a near pitch black walkway. Taking point, Abbas squeezed through and led them uphill through a narrow one-person corridor, filled with countless twist and turns. Finally he knocked on another door, to which a slit opened on the front as another homeless man looked through. Seeing the large man, he quickly opened it and nodded, letting the group through to a large yellow lit tunnel where more homeless people slept under cardboard and cloth. Xole squinted.

  “Hey, are we still in the main city? This place looks like it was near my house.”

  “We’re on the outskirts.” Patchwork replied.

  “Really?” he took another look around. “But how’d we get here?”

  “Haven’s heart may be beneath the city,” Abbas said. “But her reach knows no bounds.”

  The group arrived at an empty lot of a closed down store. Night was setting quickly, and the few dull yellow lights that still worked were being patrolled by flies. In the distance, the five could see another group of some rough looking people talking quickly outside a busted up van. Abbas, still leading, continued to move forward while putting his hand up to his side.

  “You all remain here and get started up. I’ll have a word with our friends up there.”

  Before he could protest, Abbas quickly strutted up to the surprised group, much to Xole’s alarm. He looked at the rest to see they had leisurely started setting up rope and traffic cones around, unworried by what was happening.

  “Hey,” he asked. “Is he gonna be alright?”

  “Of course he’ll be!” Salamander said, “he gon’ tell ‘em they can have the lot for da weekend this time.”

  Xole looked surprised, “He…knows them?”

  “Well duh!” Snap nearly laughed. “All of us, ‘cept that recluse Patchwork!” he made binoculars with his hands. “Remember, we got eyes everywhere.”

  “Being a recluse and being safe are two entirely different things.” Patchwork sighed, unloading his briefcase. He laid out a foldable table where he placed bandages, needles, as well as discolored ointments and liquids. “And I expect you all to help me clean up this time.”

  Snap and Salamander exchanged confused glances. The doctor shook his head.

  “Anyways, let’s focus on why you came out here in the first place, Xole. Your Gi is balanced, however do you understand how to utilize its properties?”

  Xole scratched his forehead. “Utilize my Gi…properties?”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” He took out a diagram of the human body again. He traced his finger around it counterclockwise. “Gi flows around your body like this, in a circle made up of the offensive and defense trait we spoke about earlier. This flow is what enhances your body’s physical stats, such as your speed, strength, and durability for example.”

  “Even for Material types like me!” Snap gave a thumbs up to himself. “That’s why we don’t die instantly when fighting Bodily types!”

  “Unless it’s me,” Salamander added.

  “So…” Xole began, “what you’re saying is once I get this down, I’ll be more durable?”

  “You’re already durable,” Patchwork corrected. “Once one manifests their Talent, their Inner-gi begins to flow like this naturally to maximize your body’s efficacy. Now in the question of if you can increase your body’s ‘stats’, then yes. It all comes down to training. Consistency is key.”

  Xole nodded quickly, ‘Ok, seems pretty easy so far.’

  “And don’t think this is ‘it’ or it’s just ‘easy’,” he continued, “The basis of combat revolves around this utilization of Inner-gi. It’s quite literally the core of what makes us human!”

  Xole blinked, “Wait—”

  “We’ll need to assess your Inner-gi management. From that we’ll be testing your boxing, aculties, see if you’re eligible for techniques—”

  ‘VRR—VROOOOOOM!’

  The sudden sound of an engine interrupted him and sent Xole’s head jerking back to the front of the lot where the van sped off and Abbas was now coming back.

  “Thank you Patchwork, Salamander, Snap. I think I shall take it from here.” He stopped ten feet from Xole and tapped his cane on the ground twice. Xole noticed everyone else leave the circle of rope which had now encompassed the two of them. Ignoring his nervous stomach, he rolled his shoulders to try to relax.

  “Alright, where do we start?” he said.

  “We’ll begin with the basics,” Abbas said, beginning to pace left and right. “Young one, how is your boxing?”

  ‘Just like what Mr. Holdover talked about,’ Xole thought. “Well, above average?” he said.

  Abbas looked puzzled, “Why did that sound like a question?”

  “Look my skills are…alright.” Xole said. He puffed out his chest. “I’ve defeated Brandon Amesworth in single combat!”

  “…”

  Xole gulped.

  Abbas looked down, pressing his lips together. “What about techniques?” he said. “Have you learned any since manifesting your Talent?”

  “Oh, like the thing Patchwork was talking about!” Xole said, “What are those like?”

  Again, Abbas went silent. Patchwork squeezed his temples, shaking his head.

  “Abbas!” the doctor said, “We need to assume we’re starting with a blank slate!”

  “I hear you,” the man replied, still looking at Xole. He took a breath. “How about your Inner-gi? Have you found your Aculty yet?”

  “My…Aculty?”

  “Yes. It is what your Talent primarily specializes in.” Abbas said. “You’ve used your Talent before already. What did you accomplish while doing so?”

  “Well,” Xole said, remembering the pain on his arms, “I…uh—”

  “From what Spit said, dis fool don threw a sewer vent sky high without touching it.” Salamander said, “Dat’s crazy”

  “Ooh cool,” Snap said, “So he’s got like…telekinesis?”

  “I mean I don’t know if I’d say that—”

  “So your soul can propel itself from your body?” Patchwork suggested, “And it can interact with the physical world?”

  “Look, that’s sounds really complicated and super impossib—”

  “Then tell us,” Abbas said, “Describe in your words what you did.”

  Xole felt the memories return, feeling his arms grow numb from the thought. “For starters,” he said, “I did reach out to something, the sewer lid in this case, and I moved it not because I wanted to, but because I had to.”

  Abbas nodded.

  “And then,” he continued, “my body…it just reacts to situations whenever I feel hopeless or lost. But in both cases I never really know what I’m doing, and when I do I feel like I’m gonna fall apart.”

  Patchwork scribbled into a clipboard. Snap and Salamander kept watching, the older man smoking a large cigar while the younger began biting his nails and looking from left to right.. Abbas looked to the doctor.

  “Patchwork, your assessment?”

  “He sucks.” The doctor replied. “He’s demonstrated that he’s good for nothing but an unhinged Talent.”

  “Very well,” Abbas said. “Then we’d best start from scratch.”

  Xole blinked twice. “…Ok”

  “We’ll begin with the root.” He raised his arms to the sides. “Young one, I want to hit me as hard and fast as you can for forty-eight seconds.”

  “Ok,” Xole held his fist up and slightly bent his knees, “but why forty-eight seconds specially? Seems almost too easy.”

  “It the average amount of time most street fights last.” Abbas explained placing his cane gently on the trunk of a nearby car. “When you start coming out with us to patrol, you’ll need to learn to survive that long. But don’t worry, as we progresses your aim will be to reduce that time do get through as many opponents as possible.”

  Taking a breath, Xole readied a punch to Abbas’s gut but quickly stopped.

  “Are you sure you’ll be ok—”

  “Xole…why else would I be asking you?”

  “…Fair point.”

  Xole hit him as hard as he could, so hard he felt his shoulder ‘pop’. But Abbas’s body was weird, he didn’t react, his stomach didn’t even give.

  ‘What the heck? It’s like this guy’s stomach is bulletproof vest! But he’s not wearing any padding…maybe it’s his Talent.’

  “Are you just going to stand there?” Abbas’s voice shook Xole from his thoughts.

  With grunt, Xole hit Abbas again, harder, faster, over and over again. He kept going until his chest was tight and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. Despite all this, the man continued to stand there, unfazed. Throwing his last punch with a cry and missing, Xole fell to the ground face first. Abbas looked down at him.

  “That was about nine seconds.”

  That was all Xole could hear. Looking around he saw the blank faces of everyone, almost disappointed. He felt disappointed.

  Patchwork pressed his lips together. “Xole, how did that feel?”

  “Ex…haus…ting,” He panted.

  “Not that, the other feeling,” He said. “Your Gi, can you feel it?”

  “Feel…what?”

  “On your feet.” Abbas dragged Xole to his feet by the back of his hoodie. “Can you hear me, young one?”

  Xole could only nod.

  “The let us continue.” He splayed his arms out to the sides, “Now, again!”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  …

  A sewer lid was moved to the side, Spit-Take poked his head out, glancing from side to side. After a few moments, he crawled up and looked down.

  “Ok, coasts’ clear!” he called to the bottom

  “Jesus…FUCK that was nasty!” Mr. Holdover said crawling out, followed by Shakar who held his nose. Looking around, Mr. Holdover noticed the street they were on seemed familiar. “Didn’t know we were this close to the homeless shelter,” He said.

  “What do you mean?” Spit-take asked.

  “I’m pretty sure I had a business somewhere around here,” Mr. Holdover said walking down the sidewalk for a better view. “If you look past this building you can see—”

  “Later. Wet gotta focus on the shelter for now,” Spit-take said, ushering the two away. “Remember, this is your job after all. Now follow me, it’s right up ahead.”

  Leading the way, he took Mr. Holdover and Shakar to a weathered, four story building. Moss crawled along its cracked, exterior. Whichever windows weren’t cracked was boarded up with cheap wood, the same wood being used as its welcome banner:

  ‘SHELTERED & WARM: A ROOF FOR THE HOMELESS’

  “This’s the place?” Mr. Holdover said, “It looks like shit.”

  “Oh, wait until you see the inside,” Spit-take replied. The building was placed in a parking lot, the back facing the street while the front was in walking distance of Centrist Park. Shakar took note of its odd placement.

  “Speaking of which,” he said. “If these buildings are under heavy occupation, is getting this close even safe?”

  “We weren’t up in Prime Hill all that time for nothing,” Spit-take said. He turned to the two. “Let’s just say we get a head’s up before the cops make their rounds.”

  He opened the door to the inside; the first thing that greeted the three was the strong smell of smokes and fumes. The popcorn ceiling leaked, dripping to the stained carpet where rats were running near the corners of the wall. The residents however were unbothered, instead more focused on the blankets wrapped around them as they huddled around the single heater in the large room to their left, their right leading to a staircase. Hitting the dull sounding bell at the front desk, the door behind it opened and a round faced woman with rosy cheeks and short dark hair came out smiling at them.

  “Welcome to Empire City’s first home!” she said, “What can we do for you?”

  “We?” Mr. Holdover said looking behind her to make sure there was no one else there.

  “Just the usual visit up top, Dolly,” Spit-take said. He motioned to Mr. Holdover and Shakar. “These two are my body guards. They’re with me.”

  “Oh my!” the woman said, her large eyes inspecting the man in the dress shirt and the other in the dashiki. “Well I certainly wouldn’t want to mess with you two!”

  “No, lady, this guy’s got it all wrong,” Mr. Holdover said, shaking his head. “First off we’re not his body—“

  “As long as you treat us well,” Shakar smiled back at her. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  The woman giggled, hand to her mouth. “Oh! I’d watch this one,” she said, pointing to him. “I’d watch him very closely…” she said again, this time leaning across the desk at him.

  Spit-Take nodded quickly, “Alright, that’s great, thanks!” he grabbed the two and quickly ushered them upstairs. “Hey!” he said to Shakar, “Careful who ya get in bed with, ya hear?”

  “WHAT?” Mr. Holdover snapped up.

  “Well excuse me,” Shakar said. “I didn’t know she was taken—“

  “No, no, not that!” Spit-Take shook his red face. “I’m saying is folks like her are usually kept at arm’s length.”

  “I was under the assumption Dolly was with the underground,” Shakar said.

  The ski capped man shook his head again. “Our informants on the outside are useful, but that’s that. Nothing else.”

  “So she isn’t taken?”

  “Would you knock it off?!”

  “Ok,” Mr. Holdover said. He inspected the halls, stained walls with cracks, matching the doors leading to rooms with either yelling or whispering behind the door—if there was a door at all. The halls were narrow with a bad stench, the mostly boarded windows prevented much moonlight or city light from getting in, just lit by dim overhead bulbs. The few people in the halls spoke quickly amongst themselves, smoking and looking around anxiously. Upon seeing him and Shakar, the halls cleared immediately. Mr. Holdover made a face.

  “Ugh, what’s the plan now? Do we just interview a bunch of people here? See if all their stories line up?”

  “Not quite, locals don’t take kindly to new faces,” Spit-Take said, leading them up the next flight to the third floor, mimicking that of the previous ones. “I got a buddy who’s been a longtime friend of the Underground. He’s been keeping tabs on all the friends and family he and the rest of us have lost to these Blue Collared sweeps. We’re gonna talk to him.”

  “Doesn’t that contradict with what you just said earlier?” Shakar said.

  “Just give it a rest already!”

  Finally reaching the top floor, the three walked down the hall, doors opened, people peeking out at the new faces and quickly closing them when they were seen. Reaching the last door in the right, Spit-Take tapped the door twice quickly, pausing before tapping it quickly another three times, then after another pause, four times in rapid succession. The door cracked open, a long faced middle aged man with an aftershave peeked through behind the chain on the door.

  “Who is it?” his gruff sounding voice asked.

  “The molehill, who else?” Spit-Take answered.

  The door slammed shut, echoing in the empty hall. Mr. Holdover and Shakar glanced at each other, then, back at the ski capped man. The older man shook his head and approached the door.

  “Alright, looks like we’re doing this the hard—”

  The door swung open again, now the man had a happy look on his face, he was out of shape with a wider frame, stretching his black sweat shirt, pants, and brown overcoat, his greasy brown hair falling to his shoulders. “My friend!” he laughed hugging both Spit-take and Mr. Holdover, “Thought I’d never see your faces again, ha!”

  Mr. Holdover grunted, trying to pry himself off. Spit-Take on the other hand laughed as well.

  “Same here! I thought they caught you by now, Big John.”

  “Oh no,” he laughed again, “These Collared crooks are gonna have to try harder than that!”

  “Get…off…” Mr. Holdover said. He looked to Shakar, standing a foot back, nodding at the situation with his arms folded. If he could, he would strangle him with his kufi.

  The man known as Big John released the two. “Let’s talk inside.” He said stepping in. Spit-take went in, followed by Shakar, then Mr. Holdover who poked his head in first before entering. The three stepped into a compact room with a stained carpet and dirty white walls. It had a single bed and chair, TV, and a door behind them. Mr. Holdover inspected around.

  “Not too shabby for a homeless shelter,” he said, “Seems more like a complex in anything.”

  Big John chuckled, nodding. He folded the bed inwards so it became a couch. “Don’t let the design fool you,” he said, “It’s much easier to manage things when there aren’t ten other people in here.” He took a seat.

  “Wait ten?!” Mr. Holdover exclaimed. He stretched his arms out to the sides, a few steps at each side and he’d already be at the walls. Shakar stood along the wall next to the TV while Spit-take took a seat on the couch.

  “Ok John,” he said, “Give it to me straight.”

  The large man nodded, “This is the last shelter in this part of town. City’s been cutting back like crazy since Amesworth’s money stopped coming in.”

  “Christ,” the ski capped man replied, “And the camps?”

  Big John shook his head quickly. “They’re all but cleared out. Frankly, those are the last places I’d go. They seem to be the first targets for the blues.”

  “Well how’s it been here?” Shakar asked. “Any better, worse?”

  “Heh,” the man said, “I’m still kicking, for now.” He straightened up, “Though everyone else around here’s tense. They know the drill. Dolly too. Apparently some big wigs showed up this morning after your little fight last night. From what I’ve heard it’s about to get a lot harder around here.”

  “Big wigs?” Mr. Holdover said, “Any idea who these people are?”

  The man shrugged, “For all I know they could be some higher up cop or something. The point is the folk around here are expecting even more if us to be rounded up next sweep.”

  “So it is abduction,” Spit-Take said. His shoulders slumped. “How many are…getting taken this time?”

  Big John shook his head, “More than usual. Last time they were here, the shelter was almost cleared out. I can only imagine the next time…” The man narrowed his eyes, “Which reminds me,” he paused briefly, head looking down. “They’ve been feeding us again, three meals a day.”

  “Damn it,” the ski capped man looked away.

  Shakar made a face, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  Big John shook his head. “No, it’s very much the opposite. It usually only happens shortly before the vans show up.”

  Shakar nodded, “And then?”

  “They take us away,” he replied. He got off the couch and hit the wall, “And damn it there gonna do it again!” he looked back at the three, “I’d rather take a piece of molded bread, than even look at three hot ones anymore.”

  “So it’s a way of boosting morale?” he suggested. “Because otherwise it wouldn’t make sense to waste food on people who the shelter will never see again.”

  “A well fed individual is a healthy individual,” Mr. Holdover said. “If someone who’s Talented mistreats their body, their Talent suffers too.”

  “Well I agree, obviously,” Shakar said. “That’s common knowledge.”

  “Here’s the thing though,” he continued. “Let’s say that person grew up on a shitty lifestyle, yet still managed to manifest a strong Talent. Now imagine how much stronger they’d be once they optimize their body.”

  “Well, well, you sure know your fair share, don’t cha?” Spit-Take said, “You talkin’ from personal experience?”

  “Let’s just say I never took the best care of my body,” Mr. Holdover said. He looked back at Big John. “I know it sounds crazy, but do you think the people going missing are being rounded up like cattle for their Talent?”

  “Huh?!” Spit-Take exclaimed, “What gave ya that idea?!”

  “It’s known as ‘the seventh farm theory’,” Mr. Holdover said, “The name itself is its own story, but it was prominent during the early days of black forum sites. According to it, around one in five missing person’s cases can be traced back to this. I think it’s more though.”

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Shakar thought.

  “That…” the larger man looked out the window to the city, “I never thought of it like that…”

  “And it sounds crazy farfetched as hell!” Spit-Take exclaimed, “Even if that were true, this is thousands of missing people we’re talking about in this city alone! So where ya supposed to put them? And better yet, why?”

  Mr. Holdover snapped his fingers. “That’s the conspiracy!”

  “Then I suppose that’s where we begin,” Shakar said. “It seems this conspiracy goes beyond city limits, though it doesn’t mean the answers aren’t near the source however.”

  Spit-Take looked confused, “What do you mean?”

  “It’s simple,” Shakar said looking at him and Big John, “Have either of you two heard any instances of someone being abducted but coming back?”

  “Of course not!” Big John said, “That’s impossible. Anyone who’s gone beyond state lines never—and I mean ever—came back!”

  “Then I suppose there’s a first time for everything,” He said.

  “Hold on,” Spit-Take gave the young man s skeptical look, “You’re not really thinking about…”

  “Hey,” Mr. Holdover said, “You said your name was John, right?”

  “Big John, that’s right,” he replied.

  “Based on your meals, how long you think until the next sweep?”

  The man let out a breath, “Let’s see, it’s been almost a week already…I’d say tomorrow.”

  “Then it looks like we’re taking a trip tomorrow.” Mr. Holdover said getting up. “You got that, kuf?”

  “Kufi was bad enough, it’s Shakar.”

  “Then you’ll need thiss,” Spit-Take said tossing Mr. Holdover a green pass card.

  “Eh? I said I don’t want this—”

  “As long as you work for us you’re gonna carry that around,” The ski capped man said making his way to the door. “Only way we can communicate.”

  Grumbling, Mr. Holdover tossed the card to Shakar and went over to the window. He peered out and squinted. “Hey, were those cars always there?”

  Big John’s eyes widened and he practically leaped over to the window too, grabbing Mr. Holdover’s head and ducking low. He shot a quick glance, seeing two large men standing outside two average looking cars.

  “Unmarked cars…” he said. “The Blues, they’re here already!”

  ...

  Anastasia and Rickard drove into Centrist Park to the church where the Black Collared man had last been seen. Calling beforehand, she’d set up a crime zone around the area, attracting a handful of curious people along the yellow tape. Pulling up, Rickard stopped in front of the abandoned church. Anastasia’s eyes caught the crowd.

  “What are all these people doing here?” she asked.

  “This homeless stuff’s gotten real popular.” Rickard said. “A lot of folks are worried that they’ll be hit next and lack of info’s not helping with that.

  “Set up a work curfew. I want them gone.” She got out of the car before he could protest, slamming the door and heading for the church, stopping in front of the doors. She looked around, eyeing the damaged trees and a bridge over a pond. Making her way there she noticed a few dead fish floating at the surface.

  I assume this is all from that so-called baseball player. Intriguing. If only he didn’t waste his Talent on trivial means.’ She thought. ‘Also thanks to him I can’t even feel traces of Gi left by anyone besides him. Unfortunately, Jacklyn would’ve been somewhat useful here.’

  “Officer Rickard,” she said. “How many cameras’ where set up in centrist park?”

  “Oh, we keep about five total,” he answered. “You know how the park is shaped, like a rectangle. So we keep them more inwards from the corners with another in the center.”

  “And when did they go down?”

  “A couple days before this incident at the park ma’am,” He responded promptly, “Except for our center one which is around here somewhere. That’s how we got hear so quick—”

  “And on that day of the incident,” she said, “is when you lost Gleam Machinery?”

  “Yeah…” Rickard said slowly. “What’re you saying?”

  She looked around. “You were led to the center by the homeless.” She ran up to the top of the church where the clock was.

  ‘Gah! So fast!’ Rickard looked up. “Hey! That’s our last camera! Don’t—”

  She yanked it out and pulled a small metal plate from behind it, revealing a wire stuck to the back. “You weren’t watching them, they were watching you.”

  Rickard was dumbstruck. “B-b-but how did you—”

  “These individuals clearly know how your police force operates,” she said, “The ECPD cameras are placed in strategic parts of the city to keep an eye on everyone, especially ones like this.”

  Rickard shook his head. “No, no. So you’re saying the homeless hijacked all of our surveillance set ups around the city?”

  The woman blinked. She turned and headed back for the car. “Next location.”

  “Hey wait!” he called, “What are we gonna do about the cameras?!”

  A small black object was thrown to him. He fumbled to catch it. It was a small, smooth black device with a clear lens at the front.

  “You’re going to use these instead,” Anastasia said. She took out another one from her pocket, pressing it against the metal device until it began to flatten against it like dough. The lens blinked a red dot. “This is meldough, an artificial metal that’s highly compatible with surveillance systems. Radio your men to look for any third-party objects on or near your cameras and have them use this on it.”

  She motioned for him to follow him to the car which he nodded and quickly did, even opening the door for her. She got in, “In the meantime, we are going to add these around the city,” She said

  “Wow,” Rickard said. “B-but do we have enough for the rest of my guys?”

  The woman sighed, leaning her head to her fist. “I’ll have more commissioned for your precinct. It should arrive within the day.”

  “Oh thank you!” he said, almost reaching to shake her hand but he quickly stopped himself. He cleared his throat and took the wheel, “Ahem, so where to next?”

  She gave him a stare. “We’re going to work our way counter clockwise. I cover everything. Understood?”

  Rickard nodded quickly, doing his best to hide a goofy smile. Hitting the gas, they drove out of central park, his mind wandering. ‘Man, this lady sure is something!’