The Thin Black Line Between Infernal and Divine Read online

  “What are you doing?”

  “It's cold in here. I'm finding something besides an asbestos speedo to wear. But nothing's my size.”

  “Dude, it's a dream. Put anything on, somehow it'll be the right size.”

  “Huh. Okay.”

  A few minutes of sorting later, and they found that wasn't exactly true. Some things resized, others didn't. Finally, Coleman gave in and went with the pragmatic option of a fuzzy onesie.

  “Don't you dare laugh at me,” he grumped, crossing his powder-blue sleeved arms.

  Kingsley answered his request with an evil grin and the click of her phone's camera.

  “Jerk.” He looked around the room. “So. I'm thinking we need a game plan.”

  “Probably. Since we're in a dream, we could wait until he wakes up, but—”

  “Yeah. Not a good idea. I'm starting to get tired from all this running, and I don't know how much time has passed. I've got other reserves I can draw on, but...” His eyes flared from normal brown to solid red under his glasses, and Kingsley gave him an understanding pat on the shoulder.

  “No. It isn't that dire yet.”

  “Shush,” Coleman snapped. “Don't say dire, the kid might hear you. Last thing we need is some dream version of her showing up. She'd be frightening as heck to an eight-year-old, so her dream version would probably be the equivalent of Cthulhu.”

  “Oh. Right. Anyway... this is wearing us down, so why don't we try to wake him up early? I mean, he'll wake up regardless. I think we'll survive when that happens.” She sucked her teeth. “We'll probably survive even if it's bad. Our natures give us an edge, there.”

  He snorted. “If we don't get shunted off into the planes of our... acquaintances, that is. I mean, you'd probably be fine in yours. Mine? I'd be dogfood.”

  Kingsley looked away. “No. No, I don't think I'd be any better off, Cole.”

  “What makes you say that? Angels—”

  “Read the old testament sometime, buddy.” She patted his arm. “Oh, wait. That whole allergic to holy implements thing, I forgot. Sorry.”

  “Now you're just being a dick,” he scowled. Then he slapped his face, as the door to the basement slammed open. “Oh balls.”

  Ten minutes later, Kingsley realized that they just couldn't seem to shake the she-creature this time. Rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses, she decided that she'd had enough of it. “Right! Let's do this.” Grabbing Coleman she darted left, faked right, and kept going left past the grabbing hands of 'Miss Loomis'. They burst through the fire door at the end of the hallway, ignored the blaring fire alarm that triggered, and beat feet to floor four.

  “Angelsight?” Coleman asked, trying not to slip down the stairs from the difficulties of running in footie pajamas.

  “On it.” She slid her glasses down, and the Sight showed her the way. Taking the lead, she skidded to a stop in front of door four-thirty-one, and knocked on it.

  The kid answered the door. He was wearing a black tunic and pants and he held a green, glowing sword in one hand.

  “I can't come out and play right now,” he said. “I'm learning the ways of the Force.”

  Behind him, heavy breathing filled the apartment, and a dark-armored figure waited with his own red-glowing blade.

  Kingsley considered him for a second, glanced back up the hallway. No sign of the swear-punisher, but she'd be here shortly. How could they do this?

  “Hey,” said Coleman. “Do you hear water? Like a waterfall?”

  And she did. She looked over at the same time as the kid, to see water burst through the ceiling tiles, and roar down the hall. She grinned and put her hands on her hips. “Yep, it's like lots of water! Tons of it! Man, now imagine all that water, coming out all at once...”

  The kid looked funny. “I...”

  “Yeah, water everywhere,” Coleman agreed. “Just makes you want to... relax... and... let go...”

  And the kid did. His black clothes shifted into blue footie pajamas, and he started to fade. The last thing they saw before he faded out entirely, was him looking down in despair at the soaking wet crotch and legs of his onesie.

  “MOM!” He howled—

  —And everything shifted, snapped into focus.

  Coleman looked at Kingsley, who shook her head.

  “That was wicked. How'd you know?”

  He scratched his back, looked sheepish. “I, uh, had bladder issues at his age. Always woke me up when it happened. It really doesn't take much.” He glared at her, red leaking over his sunglasses. “Don't you dare pass that around the office.”

  She smiled, and put her hands on her hips. “No, I think you coming in after this will be sufficient enough torment for one night.”

  “What do you—” He looked down at his onesie. “Oh. Here I was hoping I'd get the suit back. Well, shit.”

  They both froze, and looked around, before relaxing.

  “Yep, real world after all,” said Kingsley. “Well, guess it's time to go talk to the kid's mom. Dibs on the right shoulder, demon.” She grinned, and he shoved her with one hand, grinning back.

  “Left shoulder's mine, angel.”

  This time when they knocked on the apartment's door, a woman opened it.

  Two hours later, they were in the Grand Avenue headquarters of Icon City's branch of the Metahuman Resource Bureau. They'd been summoned to Director Carceri's office for a debriefing. It was a small room underground, and the few bits of wall visible were dull gray concrete. The government-issue clock on the back wall ground slowly around in its plastic circle, and rusty filing cabinets stood silent vigil, stacked floor to ceiling along the sides. The chairs they were in were as uncomfortable as ever, and the banged up metal government desk had probably last been cleaned sometime around the Dewey administration.

  The man behind it was gray. He wore a gray suit and a gray tie over a shirt that had once been white but was slowly reverting to his basic color scheme. His skin was tinged with an unhealthy gray, his hair was gray, and his eyes were gray. The only hints of color on him were dull yellow fingernails and teeth, as he puffed on a cigarette in defiance of every federal smoking regulation out there, occasionally breathing out clouds of gray smoke.

  “So let me get this straight,” he rasped. “You were assigned a call to investigate 43 Bleaker Street. A noise disturbance, I believe?”

  “Yes sir,” Agent Coleman replied, looking as dignified as he could in his onesie. At least his arms had shrunk back to normal, that was something. “Witnesses outside reported groaning, and the occasional shambling shadow in front of a window.”

  “And when you effected entry, you found no one in the building, and the area shifting around you.”

  “Yes sir,” Agent Kingsley replied. “And then the zombies attacked.”

  “Leading to the incident detailed in your report, and your contact with Icon City's newest dream-related metahuman.”

  “Yes sir,” Coleman replied. “Although, his family's still considering options. Jamie's eight, sir.”

  The Gray Man sighed. “And his dreams are powerful enough to snare anyone who stumbles into them. We've had reports of odd sightings in that area, but never any evidence. Never anything this major.” He took a drag of the cigarette, milky gray eyes staring off into the distance.

  “I told his parents about the help we could give him. The training we could offer, so he could harness and control his powers, sir.” Kingsley leaned forward. “He could be a hell of a hero, and look, that onesie? It's still around! Think of the potential, to have someone who can dream up things that can stick around after the dream's done.”

  Coleman cleared his throat. “I let the parents know of the potential problems if he keeps on his path. Legal issues, trauma to people who wander in at the wrong time, and that's not even getting into the weirdness that will start when that kid hits puberty. We discussed options of medicine to keep him from dreaming, or mystical seals to bypass his REM state without harming him.”

  “M
mm.” The Gray Man finished his cigarette, and stubbed it out on the desk, adding another smudge to the surface. Just one more black blot among many. “Did they indicate a preference?”

  Kingsley grinned wide. “Well sir, they said they'd have to sleep on it.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Agent Kingsley rolled in promptly at seven, as fresh as ever. Practically glowing with the light of the dawn, she was fully refreshed after a solid sleep. Once her head hit the pillow, she was out for precisely six hours, in a dreamless slumber. She hadn't dreamed for the last twenty years, two months, and twenty-seven days. Not since her... encounter. There were times she missed dreaming. On the upside, she saved a ton of money by not having to pay for a share in the office coffee club. Silver linings, she figured. Besides, coffee disagreed with her.

  Agent Coleman showed up about a quarter past nine, bleary-eyed and dragging. He went straight to the office espresso machine, got himself the blackest sludge he could get, and threw two cups down his throat before daring to return to his desk. He had been near-nocturnal for a decade and a half, and his dreams were so gripping that he sometimes got lost in them. Other times he just woke up, stared at the ceiling, then rolled over and fell back asleep in an effort to try and grab some rest.

  Technically he should have been docked about an hour or so a day for his late entry, but people cut him slack due to his hard work and capabilities. Which bugged him a bit. Which added to his stress. Which kept him up at night. Which made it harder to get rest. It was a vicious cycle.

  “Mornin' pardner.” Kingsley grinned as Coleman slouched into the cubes. “Guess what we got?”

  “A day off for figuring out the dream kid's deal? A pay raise for resolving things with a minimum of fuss and damage? Some freaking respect for once?”

  “No, no, and kinda.” She flipped her laptop around, and showed him a priority email. “We get to shepherd a trainee!”

  “Are they nuts? After what happened the last time?”

  “Looks like legal's finally willing to let it drop,” she shrugged. “Besides, it wasn't our fault he got spooked and ran the wrong way. And the Ashen Devourer hasn't been seen in years, so what are the odds of that happening again?”

  “At least twice what they were before you went and tempted fate. You should know better.” He sighed, ran his hand through his hair. “All right. The rookie's in the tank, I'd guess?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Come on, then. Let's go give him the song and dance. Maybe he'll come to his senses and decide to quit and take up something less dangerous. Like defusing bombs or punching out bears.”

  Everyone spent a turn in the tank, when they first arrived. It was one of the vagaries of government service that you had to have a proper clearance before you were permitted to enter certain facilities, look at certain documents, or know about certain things. Unfortunately, the contractors who were in charge of doing the background investigations were constantly overworked, overbooked, and running on a serious budget crunch. As such, it could be days, weeks, sometimes even months of waiting for the unlucky new civil servant who had been hired to do a job that he couldn't dig into until he was cleared.

  Most of the Grand Avenue headquarters of the MRB was top secret clearance-rated. With a few exceptions for public-facing areas, such as the lobby, a couple of conference rooms, a restroom or two, the low-security cells, and the bare-walled room known as 'The Tank'.

  That was where they found the rookie, his head bent low, scratching a mechanical pencil through a book of crossword puzzles.

  “Richard Moynahan?” Kingsley said, donning her friendliest smile.

  He glanced up, did a double take, and offered a hesitant smile back. He was young. Fresh out of college, looked like, with a short and tight haircut. He had a face without any lines or real wear to it, and a thin frame not unlike her own. He rose and she concealed a grimace as he gained at least a head of height on her. It was the fate of the short to be surrounded by giants, she supposed. At least he was shorter than Coleman's six-and-a-half feet. Then again, Coleman put most people to shame when it came to size.

  In more ways than one, she thought, remembering how he'd looked in those asbestos briefs. There were times she regretted the rules against fraternization, even though she knew it would be a horrible, horrible idea for a number of reasons.

  She jerked her mind back to the present. “I'm Kingsley, he's Coleman. We'll be training you this week.” She offered a hand, and he took it, gave it a strong shake.

  “Any word on your clearance?” Coleman asked.

  “Uh, no, not yet,” Richard said. “And please, call me Rick.”

  “Nope,” she said. “Bad idea.”

  “Ummm... why? If it's okay to ask,” he added.

  “It's always okay to ask,” Coleman said. “It's because when we're out in the field, our job goes smoother if we avoid nicknames. If we act too casually, we risk losing the respect and awe of the public... such that it is. Not everyone has respect for us, but when you run into people that do, it tends to make your job easier. So we do stuff like use formal names, keep our uniforms nice, and avoid picking our noses in public. Those practices help us. Act with dignity and you get respect. Act like a slob, and worst-case, people don't take you seriously. And since one agent's much like another to Johnny Q. Public, if you muck up it runs the risk of affecting every other agent, too.”

  Kingsley piped up. “We do get code names, though. But you have to earn those. You don't get to pick them, your co-workers do. So give it a few weeks, you'll have a sweet code name of your own, probably.”

  Richard's mouth had fallen open during the explanation. His jaw worked as he tried to interject several times, before they let him get a word in, “Oh. I never thought of it that way. Sorry I guess I'll be more careful.”

  Kingsley threw a light punch at his shoulder. “Eh, don't sweat it. Coleman tends to be a little heavy at times. So, you ready to ride?”

  “Sure,” the rookie said. “I'm not sure how this goes, so I'm down for anything. Ah, I've got my pilot license if you want me to drive?” He asked, trying to conceal the anticipatory gleam in his eyes.

  Coleman barked laughter. “Slow down there, buddy. The aircars are only for use when ground vehicles are impractical. Levitonium's expensive, you know.”

  “Oh,” The rookie hid his disappointment well, Kingsley thought. She led the way to the garage, snagging an escort badge for Moynahan at the desk before walking him past defenses and security that would have taken him down if he'd tried to enter on his own. But with his badge, there was nothing beyond the occasional flash of a green light as he stepped through a few secure doorways.

  Finally, they made it down to the bottom level of the parking garage. A row of identical black sedans faced a row of army surplus Humvees painted black. Beyond them, the garage stretched on, and the boxy forms of riot vans could be seen stacked around a towering, twenty-ton APC.

  Moynahan was rubbernecking so hard that at one point Kingsley had to call a warning before he walked into a support pillar. Coleman just shook his head, headed to their parking spot, and held the door for him.

  As she took the driver's seat and Coleman got shotgun, Kingsley noticed the slight look of puzzlement on his face as she closed the door and started up the ignition. What now? She cheated a bit, let a hint of blue sink into her vision, as she peered at him through the rearview mirror. Ah. He was surprised to see her driving, had expected Coleman to do it. Chauvinism in this day and age? The kid was due for a rude awakening.

  “So, where are you from?” she asked, pulling the car out of its spot, and heading toward the well-guarded exit.

  “Atlanta,” he said. “Well, a little suburb north of there, anyhow.”

  “Welcome to the East Coast.”

  Then they were through the checkpoint, and Moynahan's expression turned to shock as Kingsley gunned it, drifted into traffic to the blaring of half-a-dozen horns, missed an oncoming truck by inches, and peeled rubber as she sh
ifted gears. They erupted onto and through the eight lanes of the Grand Avenue junction, screamed around a frantically honking taxi, pulled past the thirty-foot tall statue of Tesla that dominated the roundabout, and sizzled by the subway terminal before Moynahan's screams finally started sounding like words again.

  “What the hell?” Moynahan shouted.

  Coleman chuckled. “Seatbelt, man. Seatbelt.”

  It took around two or three tries for the shaken rookie to get the seatbelt secured. When Kingsley looked away from him, they'd merged onto the highway, and the black-glass tower of MRB HQ was receding into the distance. A flare of golden yellow from above, as the linked airships of the Gold Line set off from their tower toward the higher-class stops of the city.

  “And this is why she always drives,” Coleman clarified. “She cheats.”

  “Oh. Ah. Okay. Powers?”

  “Yep. Both of us,” Coleman said. “You?”

  “None, sorry.”

  “Hey, you've got nothing to apologize for,” Kingsley said. “Honestly, they always come with complications. Which is why the Bureau exists. Black suits, thin black lines between the rest of society and the weirdos, you know? We were formed to police superheroes, watch villains, keep the supernatural from screwing people over, all that sort of thing. Every one of us agents does that job, powered or no.”

  “So what do your powers do?”

  Kingsley and Coleman looked at each other, and Moynahan raised his hands. “Uh, sorry if it's a rude question.”

  “Nah, it always comes up sooner or later,” Coleman shrugged. “Kingsley here was at ground zero for a close encounter of an angelic kind.”

  “I ended up cutting a deal with it.” She kept her eyes on the road ahead. “Can't go into too many details because you don't have your security clearance yet, but I get a fraction of a fraction of a couple of its powers. Minor control over physics, super-reflexes, and the ability to see the patterns of order in things. Like traffic.”